


Against the Current

by durinsprinces, spnhell



Category: Being Human (UK), The Almighty Johnsons
Genre: AU, Bullying, Child Abuse, Descriptions of Violence Towards a Child, Descriptions of child abuse, Eventual Anders/Mitchell Relationship, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Underage Anders/Mitchell, Hang in there guys, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Rating will change, Slow Burn, Sober!Mitchell, Tags to be added, Verbal Abuse, Young Anders, absolute trash to follow, nice!Mitchell, ptsd probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-04-09 05:50:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 76,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4336316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/durinsprinces/pseuds/durinsprinces, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnhell/pseuds/spnhell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Maybe the broken shreds of his soul just recognise another lonely one when he sees it, maybe he’s just so desperate to actually connect with another person, to actually hold a conversation, that the fact he’s even bothered by what a 13 year old boy would think doesn’t even register. Maybe he might actually be able to help someone, instead of hurting them like he normally does.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>All Mitchell wanted to do today was buy groceries. </p><p>Saving a small, badly bruised child from getting the shit kicked out of him  was not on his list of things he wanted to do today. Not that being saved was ever on Anders' list of things that he wanted or even needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Boiling Point (My Name's Not Asshole)

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this is an AU that Raven and I spawned out of seemingly nowhere, and that has just taken on a life of it's own. 
> 
> In this AU, Mitchell killed Herrick very early on, and as a result has been living clean for almost 100 years. He feeds every now and then consensually in clubs, and he still feels the burn and the desire, but he has it more or less completely under control. He's been in New Zealand for a while, working as a morgue attendant. 
> 
> Anders lives at home with his drunken and abusive parents. Axl hasn't been born yet, and Mike is still only 18, so none of them are aware of God business just yet. 
> 
> Just want to clarify that whilst this is going to be slow-burn, Anders will still be underage when their relationship changes from friendship to something more. He will be about 15 when this happens. Don't like it don't read it. You have been warned.

It’s cold. Not that he ever really feels warm, but today is particularly bad. Anders tugs his backpack tighter against his back, hoping it’ll help stave off some of the wind. It’s like knives against his skin; tiny knives threatening to shred his skin and resolve. _He’s not cold_.

It’s just cold out.

He hears them before he feels them. Hears the sneers and taunts and jokes at his own expense. _Hey, look! It’s that ugly little midget again! Hey, Johnson!_

His eyes slide shut as he comes to a stop. It’ll probably hurt less if he just lets it happen. It usually does. Not that it hurts. He doesn’t hurt.

A hand grabs the handle of his backpack and drags him backwards. Anders shuts out their words. He’s heard them all before. _Weakling, ugly, dwarf._ They’re just empty words now. Empty words from empty people. _Faggot, bitch, know-it-all._

He feels the punch, but doesn’t really register it. It’s the second that sticks out in his haze. His lip scrapes against his teeth wrong and blood pours out of the wound. _Great_. This is one of his only shirts that isn’t stained with blood or vomit. Or, sadly, both.

He tries to push them away against his better judgement. It’s an instinct. One of the last he’s trying to fight and keep himself from doing. It makes it worse.

Anders is on the ground in no time flat, since he’s really not putting up much of a fight. His ass hits the ground all wrong, the hard impact hurting the bruises he already has. A yelp he doesn’t want to make is pulled from his throat with the bright burst of pain. It sounds weak and pathetic and Anders decides to pretend it didn’t come from him. It’s easier to pretend.

The heavy boot crashes into his ribs and he can’t breathe. Shit, he can’t breathe. Another crushing blow and he’s seeing black in his vision. And not for the first time, Anders can’t help but hope he’ll just pass out from it. At least he won’t feel it happening.

_Not that it hurts._

 

* * *

 

_Cheese. Pasta. Bread._

Mitchell mentally runs through his shopping list as he walks down the street, jacket collar turned up against the wind. He’d taken one look at his barren cupboards and realised that the dreaded shopping trip could be avoided no longer. The fact that he couldn’t even drown himself in tea had done little to improve his mood as he’d resigned himself to going back out in the harsh weather.

_Tea bags._

He brings his cigarette to his lips, paper glowing as he takes a drag. He inhales deeply, savouring the burn in his lungs, so different from the constant twinge of hunger, the hunger that won’t be sated by anything on his shopping list.

_Beer. Lots of beer._

Not that it means he can’t try.

Exhaling, he pulls his leather jacket tighter around him, grateful for his worn gloves as he feels the chill seeping further into his bones.

_Filters. Papers._

Tendrils of smoke curl lazily around him, exposed fingertips almost numb as he flicks ash onto the pavement and brings the cigarette up for another toke. He’d run out of filters earlier that day, had resorted to rolling a roach instead, the lack of a proper filter only intensifying the burning satisfaction of his only remaining vice.

It’s as he’s turning the corner, grocery store in sight, that it hits him. The smell of freshly spilt blood.

He grinds his teeth against the onslaught on his senses, keeping his gaze fixed on the supermarket at the end of the road when the coppery smell drifts past him again. He barely suppresses a moan as the itch in his throat racks up, compelling him to take a deeper breath, to turn and find the source and bleed them dry.

_Milk. He needs milk._

Determined not to cave into his desire, he continues towards the shop, ignoring the ever present voice in his head that is telling him that a fresh meal, a _proper_ meal would be so much more pleasurable than the mac and cheese he planned to make.

_Cheesecake._

Dessert. He’ll treat himself. He’ll fucking deserve it if he makes it into this shop and back again without ripping someone’s throat out. That lone jar of pickles in the back of his fridge is looking like a good option at this point.

He’s within reaching distance of the door when he hears it, a small yelp followed by the unmistakeable sound of someones ass hitting the pavement. Instinctively he turns at the sound, cringing internally as he realises that the source of not only the sound but the blood too is no more than a boy of about 13.

The taunts of the group of lads that surround the younger boy reach Mitchell’s ears as he turns away. _Not your problem, not your place to interfere. Mac n’ cheese Mitchell._

He raises his hand to open the door, falters as another whimper carries on the wind. _Okay beer. Beer and cigarettes. Priorities Mitch._

He shivers as a particularly strong gust brushes past him. The growing unease at the situation has Mitchell hesitating again, and it’s as he pauses that he realises that the smell of blood was somewhat different; tangy and tinted with fear and panic and anger, admittedly all emotions he’s not unfamiliar with with regards to the spilling of blood, but there’s something else too. Something he can’t quite put his finger on.

The kid wasn’t even wearing a coat.

It’s the sound of boots meeting flesh that has Mitchell’s resolve crumbling, feet crossing the street before he even realises what he’s doing, anger at the sight of the older boys kicking the shit out of the sandy haired youngster clouding his vision and suppressing even the blood lust.

The boy’s voice rings in his ears, yelling at the kids to shove off, and he’s fighting back but Mitchell can see that he’s losing, can see that the older kids aren’t going to stop.

He barely has a moment to admire the youngsters tenacity before he’s upon them, grabbing the coat of the largest boy and throwing him off to one side.

“What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” he barks, his voice feeling oddly unused. He doesn’t notice the way his voice has the kid on the ground recoiling in terror, arms flying up to cover his face.

He turns, eyes bleeding to black, fangs descending as he leans forward to hiss at the older bullies. The look of terror on their faces does nothing to ease the quaking rage inside of him, and he takes a step forward, hands curling into fists, when he hears a shaky voice behind him.

“Just leave it mate.”

The voice is so quiet that for a moment Mitchell thinks he imagined it. He retracts his fangs, eyes returning to amber as he whirls around in disbelief. Absently he registers the sound of the older lads running off, words like “freak” and “demon” flying off their tongues, as he takes stock of the pathetic little ball of bruises and anger and fluffy hair that he’s now being confronted with. Tiny arms pull away from his face and two of the brightest blue eyes he thinks he's ever seen meet his.

“You’re joking right?” Mitchell raises an eyebrow at the boy, reaching out a hand to help pull him up off the ground.

A hand which is promptly smacked away.

“Look I don’t need your help,” the boy snarls, _actually fucking snarls who does this kid think he is?_ He scrambles to his feet, swaying slightly and Mitchell’s reaching out a hand again before he can stop himself.

“What the hell are you’re doing?” the boy snaps at him again, and Mitchell’s instantly recoiling, rolling his shoulders and biting his tongue against the snark retort he wants to make.

He could be buying food right now. Hell this little scrap of a boy could _be_ his food right now.

Still. Mitchell’s eyebrows furrow as he gets a better look at the bruises littering the kid before him as he straightens his clothes and hitches up his backpack. He notices a few surrounding the boys throat, mentally noting that he hadn’t seen the other boys grab him there. His frown deepens.

“Did they do that to you?” He asks, instantly regretting it as the boy stiffens.

The boy looks up at him, half in question and half in irritation. And he has to look up; now that he’s standing Mitchell realises he barely even reaches his chest.

Mitchell gathers himself, pointing at his own throat in answer, confusion building as the boy flushes a deep shade of pink and drops his gaze to the floor.

Mitchell feels a little bad for asking but… There’s something about this that doesn’t seem quite right to Mitchell.

“Yeah, what of it?” The answer is aimed at the pavement, small feet now toeing at the ground in front of him.

He watches as the boy wipes his face on his sleeve, blood smearing across the thin fabric of his long-sleeved t-shirt, as he bunches his little hands inside the too-long sleeves. He hasn’t forgotten the not quite right smell of the boys blood either.

Mitchell shrugs, not even knowing himself why he’d asked the question. Of course those boys had done that to him. The poor kid was obviously getting his ass handed to him on a regular basis. Instead he changes tact. “Aren’t you cold?”

The boy snorts, but Mitchell can see that the laugh doesn’t reach his eyes, the blue depths icier than the ground they're standing on.

“Why do you care?” he answers with a question of his own, and before Mitchell can even work out why he does seem to care, the kid is shouldering past him, literally slamming his shoulder into Mitchell’s chest as he passes.

“What the hell is your problem kid?” Mitchell blurts out, and this time he doesn’t fail to notice the boy flinching back at his sharp retort. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down and remember that he’s speaking to a child. “Look, I was just trying to help.”

“Yeah well, like I said, I don’t need your help,” they boy replies, and Mitchell has to shove his hands in his pockets to stop himself from reaching out and stopping the boy from walking away.

He doesn’t know what it is about this kid, but he instantly feels the need to protect him. Maybe it’s the clearly too-large clothes that he’s wearing, clear signs of hand-me-downs and thrift shop buys; the lack of a coat doing nothing to hide the collarbones Mitchell can see jutting out underneath his thin shirt; or maybe just the fact that despite the fear Mitchell can hear laced in his every word, and the beating he just witnessed, the boy still has the guts to hold his head up and tell Mitchell where to go.

“Asshole.”

The flippant remark jolts Mitchell from his musings and he snaps his head up, reply out of his mouth before he can stop it.

“Hey my name’s not asshole. It’s Mitchell.”

He doesn’t know why he says it, doesn’t know why he thinks this boy would give two shits about what his name his, doesn’t understand why he wants the boy to know it.

Maybe the broken shreds of his soul just recognise another lonely one when he sees it, maybe he’s just so desperate to actually connect with another person, to actually hold a conversation, that the fact he’s even bothered by what a 13 year old boy would think doesn’t even register. Maybe he might actually be able to help someone, instead of hurting them like he normally does.

The boy pauses, before turning and fixing him with a look that is full of so much resignation it pains Mitchell to look at it.

“I really couldn’t care less,” the boy sneers, before turning and walking away again.

Well. Maybe not then.

 

* * *

 

As Anders walked away, he felt almost compelled to glance back over his shoulder. It’s an old feeling. One that’s heavy in his gut, and had nothing to do with the round of abuse it took today. As he gets farther and farther away from the stranger, his skin almost crawls with the desire to look back. He can’t wrap his head around why.

He was just another adult who thought they could help. He can’t help. He’s just another person who thinks they care, up until the second they realise they don’t. The last thing Anders wants or needs is a saviour. He’s already had plenty of people half assing their attempts.  

Anders rounds the corner, feeling relief wash over him when he’s out of the stranger’s line of sight. With the relief comes the inevitable breaking of the dam.  He takes a few more steps before he collapses against the wall of the nearest building, finally giving into the urge to actually feel the pain radiating throughout his body. His entire being. If souls are real, Anders’ throbs in a steady rhythm with the blood pulsing beneath his freshly abused skin.  

He hadn't wanted to look weak in front of the man that had come to his rescue. Frustration licks hotter at his insides than his humiliation does. No one's ever saved him before and he doesn't need it now, either. That man, _the asshole_ , his mind supplies for him, had no right butting into his business. Especially when he had looked so pathetic and weak, like Anders knew he did.

Anders is just so tired of looking weak in front of others.

He can’t sit here forever. He has to get home. Ty’s going to be hungry and Mike will probably be off late from work again. Anders’ stomach doesn’t even bother to growl at the thought of food. There probably wouldn’t be enough for them both, and even if there were, he doesn’t think he can eat it.

Pushing himself up from the wall, motivated by the thought of what happens when he’s late, Anders gets to his feet and hurries to get home. It isn’t until a street later that he’s doubled over, heaving into Ms. Miller’s rosebush. It might be the only time Anders thinks he’s glad the kids at school stole his lunch money.

Wiping his mouth off, he prays Ms. Miller didn’t see him as he continues down the street. He looks at his sleeve, waiting for the cross light to turn. The smell of sour stomach acid burns his nose.

 _Now it’s both_ , he thinks with a sneer.

The light changes and he steps into the crosswalk, not even bothering to look both ways. What would it matter if he got hit by a car? _Not a whole lot_ , he thinks to himself with a shake of his head.

Ty greets him at the door, a small smile on his face. “Hey,” he looks up at his big brother and tugs him inside by his sleeve. His nose wrinkles when he touches the wet fabric. Big eyes glance up at him, a frown replacing the tiny grin he had. But Ty remains silent as he lets go of his shirt and lets his brother peel off his shoes.

Anders is so glad Ty never pries, unlike Mike.

Maybe Mike prying because he wanted to help wouldn’t be so bad. But Anders is sure it’s for his own amusement, rather than to help. After all, weren’t big brothers supposed to stand up to the bullies?

Not that he needs him to. Anders doesn’t need help.

The house is silent. It’s an odd sound to him. One he both craves and hates. When the house is silent, that means no one is fighting. Which could be either bad or good, he can never quite tell. Sometimes it’s good, means both of his parents are off on their own somewhere in the house, or out. Anders doesn’t care to know where, so long as it’s anywhere but here.

But sometimes it’s bad. Sometimes that means it’s really bad. That someone has said something awful to the other. They’re brewing the storm. Those are always the worst days. Those are the days that even Ty gets hit if he’s not careful.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of his too-empty stomach, Anders thinks this might be the calm before the storm. The day can never get better, but it always has time to get so much worse.

Closing his eyes, Anders lets Ty pull him into the kitchen, his little hand cold in his own. Ty’s always cold, too. Maybe if their dad could just relent and let them turn on the heat? Just for a few hours.

He pushes those thoughts out his mind. Wishful thinking is for people who believe in miracles. Anders doesn’t believe in them. He’s seen how the world works, and he’s positive it’ll never work in his favour.

“Is pasta okay?” Anders asks, checking the clock on the stove. It’s off by a few minutes, but even if it weren’t he already knows he’s starting dinner late.

“We had pasta last night. And the night before last,” Ty grumbles, though he doesn’t object to it.

“I know,” Anders shrugs and stands on his toes to reach the box of noodles. “I’ll see if we can get something else at the store next time, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Ty gives his own little shrug, mirroring his big brother. “We had pasta for lunch at school today.”

“Did you really?” Anders feels a little twinge of guilt that he doesn’t know how to cook anything more than pasta, really. And that they can’t afford more or better for Ty. As much as he thought he hated his brother when he younger, he really can’t manage to find it in him to hate him now. He’s so kind and thoughtful. Not at all like the rest of the family.

 _Perhaps that’s why mum loves him most_ , the words whisper darkly in his ear and he shakes his head.

The water boils slowly, like the anger deep inside of him. He puts the spoon over the pot; a trick he learned to keep it from boiling over. He idles over his own little tricks that keep his anger from spilling over the sides, burning everything in its path of destruction.

Dinner is quiet. Still too quiet. Anders can’t help but flinch at any bit of noise that sounds off in the small house. The loud crack of the television in the other room makes him jump and Ty looks up from where he’s slurping his pasta off of his fork. _It’s just the TV_ , Anders tells himself. He chastises himself for being such a baby. The food is like cigarette ash in his mouth, but he manages to eat some to placate Ty. He doesn't seem to be worried about the feeling of tension in the air, coiling tight and ready to snap. 

It turns out, he had every right to be so nervous.

The storm arrives, right before bed time and reeking of whiskey sours. He should know, Anders is a pro at making whiskey sours.

His mother comes in first, looking him up and down before leaving him alone. That’s okay, he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t want to know about her day and she certainly doesn’t want to know about his.

He can hear the soft clicking of Ty’s bedroom door being opened and shut again. She must be tucking him in. Anders breathes deeply and returns his attention back to the book open on the table. He would do his homework in his bedroom, but there’s no light anymore.

Serves him right, he shouldn’t have been reading past his bed time anyways. How many times had he been told nicely? How many times had he been told with the back of a hand?

The smell of vodka permeates the cloud of whiskey. Anders hates the smell. It’s sharp and stringent. Whiskey smells old to him. A little safer, maybe.

Vodka smells like the rubbing alcohol he pours on his wounds when no one’s looking.

Anders tucks himself into the chair a little tighter. If he can make himself small enough, maybe his dad won’t notice he’s there. He thinks it almost works, too.

His father is about to slip away with the half empty bottle of vodka when Ty’s door opens.

Anders shuts his eyes as he shuts the book. No amount of stories or historical tales will save him from the present.

“Oh, it’s you,” his mother’s voice sounds rough. Anders wonders how many packs she’s smoked today. He waits for his dad to respond to the snide comment, not bothering to look up from his schoolbook.

“Hey, I’m fucking talking to you,” she sneers and Anders has to look up now. His blood turns to ice in his body as he realises she’s talking to him.

“Answer your mother when she talks to you, boy.”

Anders glances over at his drunk father, then back to his drunk mother.

The day _always_ has time to get much worse.

“Yeah, mom?” he answers, tries not to make his voice sound as scared as he doesn’t want to feel.  “Do you need something?”

“Why are you upsetting your brother?”

Anders resists the urge to ask which one. He knows it could be either, but he’d just be prolonging the inevitable. Best get it over with now. “I’m sorry, I-”

“What did he do?” his dad jumps in before he has the chance to really apologise for something he doesn’t even know he’s done.

“He upset Ty,” she points a wobbling finger at him. “He told me you came home late. _Again_.”

Anders swallows the bile rising in his throat. He knew the storm was coming. Why hadn’t he skipped dinner? “I didn’t mean to-”

“What? You left your brother here alone?”

 _It’s not like you two sacks of shit didn’t leave him here_ , Anders retaliates in his head, feels the words bounce around in his skull and buzz in his ears. He grinds his teeth.

“Yes, but-“

“But nothing!” the voice rises above him like water from the ocean. He feels slightly pacified by it, but only because he thinks he’s resigning to the undertow. “You are to come straight home from school. Is that clear?”

“Yes, dad. I’ll come straight home from now on.” _Not like I didn’t try. Not like I had to talk to a teacher about my test I missed because I couldn’t go to school with that many bruises on my face. Not like I didn’t get the shit kicked out of me walking home._ The words box his teeth, sitting so nicely at the tip of his tongue and threaten to spill. He clenches his jaw.

“Damn right you will,” he nods at Anders and moves to slip off. “Go to your room, boy.”

Anders doesn’t need to be told twice. Being told twice means being told with a fist or either side of a hand. He bolts up, but a hand on his shoulder shoves him back down into the hard wood. He wasn’t fast enough. Anders is starting to think he’s never fast enough. God, he should have barrel rolled out of his chair. He might have been able to make it to his bedroom. 

“That’s it? You’re just going to let your son off with a warning? Ty could have gotten hurt! He’s only eight years old!”

Anders can’t stop himself; he can’t. He tries. Trick one, say it in your head.

_You should have been watching him._

He can still feel the words forming on his lips.

Trick two, whisper it to yourself. They’re both shouting at each other. So it’s not like they’ll hear him.

 _“You should have been watching him_.”

He can feel his anger rising in his stomach alongside the meager dinner he ate.

He can’t even make it to trick three before the words pour out of his mouth; shouts them louder than he thinks he’s ever shouted before.

“ **You should have been watching him**! You’re our parents! You should have-” a hand snakes into his hair, ripping him from the chair and up on the tips of his toes.

“What did you say?”

Deny it. Remain silent. Don’t make it worse. Apologize.

“I’m so-“

“I don’t want to hear it!” the words are shouted in his face and feels a bit of spit land on his cheek. He shivers at the wetness on his skin. He feels nauseous. “How dare you talk to your mother like that!”

The hand yanks his hair so hard tears prickle in his eyes. The slap delivered to his cheek isn’t much better, either. “You should know your place by now!”

“I do know!” The second slap reopens his lip wound. He’s tired of the taste of blood on his tongue. He thinks maybe that’s it, that it's over, because his father doesn’t say anything else.

But is it ever enough to satisfy him? How much blood does he need to spill for it to be enough? How many bruises and cuts will prove who he belongs to? How many forced, broken, empty apologies until it’s enough for them to believe him when he says he truly does know his place.

The punch to his already abused stomach sends him to his knees. Oh, God, he’s going to puke. A hand reaches out to stabilize himself as he gags twice and heaves on the floor. He wishes his hand would have landed anywhere but on his father’s leg, but he’s not close enough to anything else.

The leg moves away, nearly sending him sprawling into his own puddle of sick. Which would be just awful right about now, as he won’t have a chance to bathe. He wonders somewhere in the back of his mind if he’ll even have the chance to brush his teeth.

The pasta is rancid on his tongue as his stomach finishes emptying its contents. At least his father has the decency to let him finish. After all, he’s no stranger to throwing up himself.

A hand wraps around his throat, hauling him off the ground. “You waste my money. You waste my food. You waste my time!”

Anders can’t help it when he shakes. He feels like fucking shit. His stomach burns. His mouth tastes like someone shoved garbage in it. His body aches. It always thrums with a constant dull ache.

He thinks about whether or not he’s ever had any of his bones broken.

He sure feels like he has sometimes.

The fingers squeeze tighter and his hands lift to the strong arm holding him up. His toes try to find purchase on the ground to no avail. His vision swims, darkening as the oxygen dies in his system.

He won’t beg. His dad wants him to. But he won’t beg.

He’s never begged for mercy, and he’s not going to start now. It’s the only shred of dignity he has left to call his own.

It’s the last thing he thinks about, _clings_ _to_ , as his vision turns completely black and he feels himself slipping into the darkness.

That’s fine with him. He won’t have to feel the pain of his chest burning for air. He won’t feel the bruising of his already bruised windpipe, as his father chokes the life out of him.

That’s fine.

_It’s not much of a life anyways._


	2. Broken Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitchell and Anders have another unfortunate encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's about to get real guys.

 

“I’m sorry,” Ty’s chin wobbles as his tiny fingers reach out for Anders’ throat. The bruises are always the worst two days after. That’s when the purple and black has a chance to settle under the bright red of the pooling blood. The old bruises were just starting to turn yellow. Anders hates it when the jarring black and purple of the new wounds layer over the sickening yellow and green and brown of the healing bruises.

“It’s not your fault,” Anders flinches when the fingers graze over his throat. He knows his voice lacks real conviction. He’s trying, really, he is.

“Yes it is!” Ty shouts, startling Anders. His little brother rarely ever raises his voice. “I told mum you came home late!”

Anders hand reaches out, awkwardly hovering over Ty’s shoulder. He’s never been very good at this part. He can’t even comfort himself when he thinks his world his crumbling around him, the debris piling on him and burying him deeper and deeper in his sorrow and shame and guilt.

“She would have found out one way or another,” Anders assures his brother, giving him a small shrug as he sets his hand down on Ty stiffly. He gives a small pat to the tiny shoulder before his hand retracts back into his own personal space.

“I’m sorry. I won’t tell her again,” Ty’s shoulders slump as he looks up at his big brother with watery eyes. Anders sighs. It’s hard to actually be mad at Ty. No eight year old should be this cute.

“Yeah if you could do that, that’d be real great,” Anders tells him. He watches the nervous fidgeting and the clear resignation to the fact that it was, in fact, his fault. Anders catches Ty’s eyes, shoots him a small smile he doesn’t necessarily feel. But he wants his brother to know he’s not mad.

The smile dies on his lips the second he hears his father shouting his name from the other room.  

With a shaky breath, Anders pushes himself off the floor and says a small “see ya” to Ty as his brother watches him leave. He holds his head high, sets an example for his little brother.

The second he’s out of his sight, Anders shrinks into himself. If he’s going to get hit, Anders hopes it’ll just be his face. As much as he hates missing school and having the bruises so obvious to the world, he doesn’t think his stomach can take another day as someone’s punching bag. Anders slinks into the kitchen where his dad is, hoping he looks like the perfect picture of submission.

* * *

Mitchell’s back in the corner shop, debating between English Breakfast and Earl Grey, when he spies a familiar head of sandy hair making his way towards the back of the store.

Realising his tea choices are inconsequential, and that frankly he doesn’t really give a crap, he tosses the Earl Grey in his basket before making his way out of the aisle and heading in the same direction.

He’d be lying if he said the kid hadn’t been on his mind all week. Working in the funeral home gave him time to think, too much time if he was honest with himself. The body of a young boy had come in during the week, just 5 years old, death certificate noting child abuse as factor in cause of death. Something about the bruises scattered across the tiny frame struck a chord with Mitchell, splashes of purple lying stark against pale skin, so vivid and out of place that it made Mitchell sick to look at them.

He’d taken the job in the morgue thinking that it would give him some relief from the constant pressure of society, the never-ending hum of life that thrummed through his veins, curling into desire in the pit of his gut, never letting him forget the monster he truly was.

He’d been partly right. The silence was something he would never tire of. He hadn’t realised until he’d stepped inside the morgue that first time, boots echoing against the steel floor the only sound, the peace he could find in the absence of a heart beat.

It was like a void.

Once he was left alone to go about his cleaning, he had no need to put on a front, no need to continue breathing as though the air wasn’t turning to ash in his lungs. He stopped, and with the abrupt end to the steady in and out of his breath, came silence like Mitchell had never known before. There was simply nothing.

And oh how he revelled in it.

The emptiness of the morgue allowed him precious moments of true clarity, and he had finally managed to come to relative levels of peace with himself.

It was a bitter irony that down here, amongst the bodies of the dead, he was both closer too and further away from humanity than he had ever been before. Down here, he was an equal with the dead, as much a corpse as any of them. His heart did not beat, his skin was as cold to touch as their own. And yet. In a way, he was more than them. In their presence, he could consider himself above them, for he had a soul, torn though it may be, he firmly believed it was still present. For the first time, he did not look at those around him and feel envy and grief and regret; he felt hope. Hope when he realised that perhaps as much as he hated the monster inside, it was still giving him life, whilst these people had none.

Of course, with the relief came also despair.

Seeing the bodies of the beaten and the betrayed did little to restore Mitchell’s hope for humanity, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever grow used to the site of flesh torn asunder, the unnaturalness of it all so much sharper, so much clearer for him to see when not clouded by a haze of lust and desire.

It weighed down on him, the sins he’d committed so many years before. Seeing acts of violence thrown back at him did little to ease his guilt, and slowly chipped away at the wall he’d built keeping the self-reproach at bay.

He knew he’d done his best, knew that the initial deaths after a turning were inevitable, unavoidable. He’d killed his sire the first chance he’d gotten, vowed not to give in to the monster he knew he could become. Even so, it did not change the fact that no amount of repentance could restore the lives he’d taken.

 _You tried_ , _Mitchell_ , he told himself, _you’ve done the best you could_.

The dead boy was just another harsh reminder of the cruelty of mankind, and despite everything, Mitchell remained glad he’d stepped away from that path long ago. He looked at the boys tiny fingers, frail wrist, couldn’t stop himself from seeing the little kid he’d tried to help earlier that week.

He’d been on his mind ever since.

Shaking the image of the dead child from his mind, Mitchell frowns as he reaches the back of the store, mystified as to where the small boy could have gone. He knows he won't find him here, not in the alcohol aisle, and yet he’s sure he would have noticed had the boy doubled back and passed him.

He’s about to turn away when that same, slightly-not-right smell captures his attention. He heads deeper into the alcohol section, stopping in surprise when he spots the boy down the spirits aisle. He’s up on his tiptoes, reaching for a bottle of vodka that’s on a shelf high above him, shirt riding up to expose the skin of his back. Mitchell scowls at the sight of the bruises he sees there, fresh ones, he notes, and is already stepping forward to offer his assistance when the boy topples back with a gasp, sending a bottle of whiskey by his elbow tumbling towards the floor, where it lands and breaks with a resounding smash.

“Oh _shit,_ oh shit oh shit,” the boy scrambles about, his movements frantic as he tries to gather up all the broken pieces of glass, little hands desperately trying to stop the spread of the liquid that’s now seeping across the floor. “Oh my god no no no…” Tears begin to well in the corner of the little boys eyes, dripping down his face even as he tries to wipe them away.

Mitchell rushes forward, abandoning his shopping and dropping to his knees in front of the boy, reaching out to calm him when before he even realises what’s happened the boy is scooting backwards, hands coming up in front of his face, small frame racking with barely suppressed sobs.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I’ll replace it, just don’t hurt me okay I didn’t mean to break it it was an accident,” the boy crumples in on himself even further, words merging together until Mitchell can barely make out what’s being said.

Not that it matters. The boys fear is so palpable that Mitchell’s surprised the whole floor isn't shaking. He sits there in shock, mind warring as he aches to comfort the little boy who’s currently breaking down in front of him, all the while unable to ignore the fact that there is blood slowly trickling down the boys palms.

_Shit._

Mitchell runs a hand through windswept curls, mind whirring as he tries to think of some way to calm the borderline hyperventilating child in front of him.

“Hey there, easy, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you,” he opts for trying to make his voice soothing, holding his breath, not daring to breathe in and catch the delicious scent of the boys blood again. He tries to ease forward slowly, when his foot catches on a piece of glass and rasps against the linoleum. The boy jerks so violently Mitchell’s afraid he’s going to hurt himself further and he pauses, trying to let the low litany of his voice calm the boy instead. “It’s okay, it’s okay. It’s only a bit of whiskey it doesn’t matter okay?”

The boy chokes out a sob, shaking the head that is buried between his knees and under his arms.

Mitchell is at a loss of what to do. He’s never had friends really, never known how to comfort, only known how to frighten or push away.

Heavy footsteps approaching have him standing again, knees aching from the position he’s been crouched in for so long. He recognises the man striding towards them, knows it’s the shopkeeper, instinctively puts himself between the angry man and the still-trembling child.

“You little shit, coming in here and breaking things,” the man starts shouting when he’s still an aisle away, voice reverberating off the bottles on the shelves, and Mitchell cringes on the boys behalf, knowing he’s probably cowering behind him. “You just wait until I tell your father about this!” he snarls, the resulting increase in sobs behind him forcing Mitchell into action.

“Hey, look don’t yell at the kid okay. I startled him, it was my fault,” he offers, hoping the man will direct his anger at him instead. Given the brief glimpse of bruises Mitchell had gotten, he figures the poor kid has had enough of that already.

A fat, somewhat crooked, finger is shoved in his face, the man so close now Mitchell can smell the anger wafting off of him. And the Jack Daniels. Clearly the old shopkeeper has been sampling his own products.

Mitchell takes a step back in disgust as the man continues his tirade.

“You stay out of this laddie, don’t need no foreigners coming in here and sticking their nose where it don’t belong,” Mitchell bristles at the slur on his roots, but lets it slide as the man turns again to the curled up form, “Joe’s been telling me all about this one. Told me he was a useless waste of space and I’m inclined to say I agree with him.”

Mitchell ducks under the arm that is now raised in accusation at the shivering mess on the floor, placing himself between the shopkeeper and the boy again.

“Look I’ll pay for it, okay? I have the cash, here, see?” He fumbles his wallet out of his back pocket, taking out two twenty dollars bills and thrusting them at the shopkeeper. He knows that it’s more than the bottle’s worth but if it’ll get this guy out of his face he doesn’t care.

The man begrudgingly takes the money before storming off in search of a cleaner. The fading footfalls seem to calm the boy somewhat, evidently realising that the immediate danger was leaving, and as Mitchell turns back to him he’s met by those watering blue eyes again. The boys lip is quivering, but he sniffs and, using his sleeve, another worn and thin t-shirt Mitchell notices, wipes his face as best he can.

He pulls himself to his feet, Mitchell’s eyes widening in horror as he notices for the first time the bruises that encircle the boys throat. Fresh bruises. In the shape of a handprint. A _large_ handprint.

Mitchell growls, and the boy flinches back sharply.

“How did you get that?” Mitchell’s voice is clipped, heavy with barely restrained anger.

The boy cowers before him, and it takes Mitchell a moment too long to realise that the look on his face and gritted tone are scaring the boy even more.

He fights through the red haze of anger misting his vision just in time to see the little blond head shove past him and make a break for the exit of the store.

_Shit._

_How many times is he going to think that today?_ He laments, as he spins after the boy.

He catches up to him just outside, he’s bent over, hands on knees, taking great gulps of air that are obviously struggling to make their way down his abused throat.

“Hey kid, look I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Mitchell approaches slower this time, reaching out and placing his hand on the boys heaving back. He barely has a moment to register the unnatural warmth radiating from it before he’s being shoved away.

“Get off of me!” The boy shouts with surprising venom, but Mitchell’s hearing is too well developed to miss the scratchiness in the boys voice, his sight too strong to not notice how shouting at him is clearly causing the boy more pain.

“Stop trying to help me, I don’t want your help, I didn’t ask you to help me okay,” the boy continues, “just leave me _alone._ ”

His voice breaks on the last word, and Mitchell feels his long-stilled heart break a little at the pain in the boys voice. He’s never heard the world _alone_ carry so much weight before, like it’s attached to an anchor, pulling the boy down into the deep.

“I was just trying to help,” Mitchell tries to pacify, but he’s swiftly interrupted by the boy again.

“Yeah, well _don’t,_ okay?” he draws himself up to his full height, which, Mitchell thinks fondly, is really not that big, “I’m fine.”

Mitchell runs a hand through his hair and down his face in frustration.

“You’re clearly not _fine_ ,” he bites back, exasperation evident in his tone. “Look I know you probably don’t remember me…”

“I remember you.”

Sapphire flashes over to meet Mitchell’s amber before glancing away again, face pinching in a glare.

“You do?”

“Yeah,” the boy scoffs. “Asshole.”

Mitchell can’t help it; he’s not sure if it’s just the absurdity of the whole situation, the sheer balls on this kid, or just the release of pent-up tension, but he throws his head back and laughs; a proper, real laugh that crinkles his eyes and resonates deep in his chest. He hasn’t laughed in a long time, and he revels in it, chuckling as he looks back down at the little boy.

He catches the wry smile the boy is trying to hide, mischief sparkling behind his blue eyes, smug smirk spreading across his face. It makes Mitchell feel a warmth spreading through his chest, knowing that he inadvertently put that there. It’s the first time he’s seen any expression on this kid’s face that didn’t look like a grimace.

Sensing that the boy isn’t about to run off, Mitchell allows his eyes to rove over the small frame again. He notes the way the boy’s holding himself, arms wrapped around his middle as though his ribs ache. Mitchell tries to stop the dismay show on his face, wondering just how many bruises the small body is harbouring.

“What are you looking at?”

Mitchell snaps his eyes up to the boys face, the feeling of déjà vu from the week before flashing through his mind before he realises that this time it was said with a little less anger, a little more curiosity.

“Your hands,” he coughs, recovering himself, “they’re still bleeding.”

He points to the stains still seeping through the kids shirt. It takes him a moment to realise that up until he’d spotted the blood again, he’d actually forgotten all about it.

Staring at it again now, whilst he can’t deny that the smell is intoxicating, washing over him and infiltrating his senses, it isn’t affecting him like blood normally does. The low burn kicks in in his throat again, and yet… He doesn’t feel instinct trying to take over. He doesn’t feel the urge to lower his fangs and sink them into the veins of the boy in front of him. He doesn't want to bend down and lick over his wounds, savouring every drop of red that is being presented so nicely to him.

He realises that both times he’s been in the presence of this kid, he’s been bleeding, and yet Mitchell has never thought of him as food.

Hesitantly, and subtly, _no need to freak the kid out even more Mitch_ , he takes a deeper breath.

It’s earthy, he thinks, like bark of the ancient trees of the forest, deep and rooted, with a sense of history to it that Mitchell can’t place. It doesn’t smell like the fresh blood of young child, rich and pure and clean; instead it’s almost musty, as though it had been running for thousands of years. There’s still the sharp metallic tang there, underneath it all, but it’s not as strong as it could be, and he finds as it washes over his senses that it actually calms him in some way. Like the feeling he gets when he steps into an old library or bookstore.

_He doesn’t smell like food._

The thought bounces around in Mitchell’s brain, seeping into every crease of his consciousness, and he thinks that maybe that’s the moment he realises he could truly help this kid, could truly help another human being.

The boy hasn’t moved, is simply scuffing his feet on the ground, ignoring the cuts on his palms.

“Come on,” Mitchell says, “I’ve got a first aid kit at home. Let me patch those up for you.”

The boy side-eyes him, a look of disbelief dancing across his features.

“It’s fine,” he replies, “I can handle it.”

“I’m sure you can,” Mitchell begins. It horrifies him but he’s pretty certain at this point that the boy has experience in patching up his own wounds. Even so.

“Just because you can, doesn’t mean that you should have too.”

The boy sniffs, glances around, looks at his feet again.

“Okay then.”

* * *

It doesn't take them long to walk the short distance back to Mitchell’s house.

He’s almost ashamed of his shabby front garden, overgrown bushes spilling out onto uncut grass, dirty paint peeling off the brickwork of his house as ivy winds its way upwards, pushing in at the cracks as though trying to pull the house apart at the seams. Almost ashamed, that is, until he realises the boy is still staring at his feet, not even looking up as they reach a stop outside Mitchell’s modest home.

He’d been quiet the whole way home, nervously risking a glance about him every now and then, before promptly informing Mitchell that his face had better not end up on a milk carton. Mitchell had chuckled at first, before images from the week before started pouring in, reminding him of the broken little body laid out in the cold of the morgue. Bile rose in his throat as quickly as the laughter had, and he’d struggled to compose himself before the boy caught on to his unease.

Mitchell cleared his throat, pulling his keys from his pocket and stepping up to the front door. Yellow paint had cracked with age, but the fresh locks Mitchell had installed glinted in the afternoon sun. His house may be old and falling apart, but vampire or not Mitchell wasn’t stupid.

“You’re Irish?”

The soft question surprises Mitchell. Evidently it surprised the boy too as he’s wearing a rather sheepish expression on his face when Mitchell turns to face him.

“How could you tell?” he asks. To be honest he’s lived abroad for so long now that hardly anyone picks up on the undertone of Irish brogue in his voice anymore.

The boy simply points, seemingly not wanting to speak again, and it’s then that Mitchell realises he’s looking at the green shamrock keyring that’s now dangling from the front door. It’s garish and tacky, but it’s one of the few items Mitchell has to remind him of where he came from.

“Oh, right, of course…” Mitchell trails off, shaking his head, before finally succeeding in unlocking and opening the front door. His heritage isn’t really something he ever mentions, the memories of his homeland too painful, but he finds he doesn’t mind this kid figuring it out.  

Once inside, Mitchell nudges the boy towards the kitchen, flicking on the kettle as he passes, cursing under his breath when he remembers that for the second time that week his shopping trip had been interrupted by the boy behind him.

He fumbles about in the cabinet under the sink, coming up triumphant with a first aid kit shortly after.

“Right, sit here,” Mitchell gestures at the chair he’s pulling out from under the kitchen table. The boy takes a seat, spine rigid.

“It’s okay, you can relax,” Mitchell says, watching out of the corner of his eye as he pops the lid on the first aid kit and rummages about to find the antiseptic and something to bind the kids hand with.  “I’m not gonna hurt you, kiddo.”

The boy hesitates, but when Mitchell shoots him an encouraging smile he slumps down in his seat, left hand coming up to cradle his ribs. Mitchell frowns at this, but decides not to say anything for now, not wanting to scare the boy off when he’s finally got him looking somewhat at ease.

From the glimpse he’d caught earlier, Mitchell knows it’s the boys right hand that’s the more cut up, so he kneels down in front of him and gently reaches out to take it in his own.

For the first time, the boy doesn’t instantly flinch away. Instead he looks warily down at Mitchell’s hand that lays open above his knee, before slowly reaching out and placing his own in it.

It’s tiny.

Mitchell stares down at the hand in his. It’s so small it barely covers Mitchell’s palm; so pale it’s almost translucent, blue veins threading through where they aren’t being marred by the blood that’s now dried and crusted around 4 long gashes.  

_God it’s a good thing this kid doesn't smell like food._

Mitchell makes quick work of cleaning off the cuts with antiseptic, wincing slightly as the dried blood tugs at the reopening wounds. He glances up at the boys face, expecting to see him grimacing in pain. He's surprised to see him with an almost serene look on his face. He’s staring off at the wall, but Mitchell gets the feeling that although he’s looking at it, he’s not really seeing it.

_Odd._

“What’s your name anyway, kiddo?” He smears some ointment over the cuts, checking as he does so that there’s no glass buried inside. As the boy startles and tries to pull his hand away, Mitchell grips it a little tighter.

“Easy, it’s okay, I’m nearly done,” he soothes, worried that he’s hurt the boy.

It takes him a moment to realise that he’s not in fact squirming at the injury, but at Mitchell’s question.

Mitchell keeps his attention focused on applying a gauze pad to the now-clean gashes, but he feels the twitch in the boys hand that imply he’s just shrugged.

“S’not important.”

Mitchell sighs, wrapping a bandage around the hand to hold the gauze in place. “Of course your name is important, kid,” he says.

He only gets another shrug in return.

Releasing the boys hand, Mitchell brushes a few rogue curls away from his face and looks up at him again. He’s lost the serene look, now looks tense again, and Mitchell chastises himself for making him feel uncomfortable.

“Okay, well, if you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine. Let me take a look at the other hand at least. This one’s good to go now.”

The soft weight landing in his palm has Mitchell looking down again, only realising now how cold the boys hands are. He takes in the blood-stained shirt, noting again how worn it looks _. He must be cold if even I can feel it. Damn._

“This hand’s not so bad, I’ll just clean the cuts out and put a band-aid on, alright?” He looks up in time to see the boy nod, before reaching over to grab a plaster out of the first aid kid.

“I hope you’re not right-handed,” he remarks, thinking about how that hand is gonna be sore for a while. The boy hesitates, tensing again, and it’s all Mitchell can do to not swear loudly in exasperation. He seems to have a knack of sticking his foot in it, it seems.

“No, I… I don’t really use my right hand.”

“Well then, that’s fortunate right?” Mitchell tries to make light of the situation, but it’s clear from the way the boys eyes have glassed over that he’s missing something here.

The boy hums in response, snatching his hand back as soon as Mitchell’s done placing the band-aid, so he can wrap it around himself once again.

Eyes rove over the ruined shirt as Mitchell gets to his feet.

“I’m gonna go find you a clean shirt to borrow, okay? I think I’ve got one that shrunk in the wash that’ll fit you.” He walks off before the boy has a chance to tell him no.

* * *

Anders watches Mitchell walk away from him. He’s left alone in the kitchen, staring into the space the man had occupied just a few seconds ago. His hands sting like crazy, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. Nothing he isn’t used to, anyway. His palms can’t shake the memory of Mitchell’s fingers gently working ointments and gauze over his wounds. The touch was so feather light that he could hardly feel the skin on his own. It makes him twist in his seat a little. Mitchell’s hands were cold, too.

Why are everyone’s hands so cold?

His eyes remain fixed on the wall, his mind racing to process everything that’s happened. Anders can hear the sound of a drawer being pulled open and his heart drops a little in his chest. Great, now he’s going to have to wear this asshole’s shirt home.

Not that he has a particular attachment to the one he’s wearing. It had belonged to Mike for a long time before it was passed down to him. He still remembers the forced smile he put on, the insincere thank you falling from his mouth, like he should be grateful for even getting to own clothes. The worn, grey material is now covered in bloody handprints from where he had stupidly clutched at the fabric like it would save him from the consequences of his own stupidity.

He should have just asked the shop owner to get the bottle of vodka for him, like he usually does. Most of the time, he does it with a few mumbled curses under his breath. But when he’s been drinking, like he has tonight, he tends to get mean about it. Sometimes he won’t even get it for Anders at all, sending him home without a bottle.

Anders grimaces as he ghosts his fingers over the remainder of the injuries from the last time he came home empty handed.

He’s got to get back to the store as fast as he can. He has no idea how he’s going to make it up to the shop owner, but he knows just about anything is better than going home without.

Another loud scrape of wood draws him out of his mind, eyes flicking quickly down the hall. He doesn’t want this asshole’s ugly shirt. At least Anders doesn’t choose the dreadful shit he has to wear. Mitchell clearly seems hell bent on winning the award for New Zealand’s worst dressed adult.

Track pants with plaid? Who even does that?

All terrible fashion sense aside, the guy doesn’t seem all that bad. But he’s an adult. When has an adult ever been good to him? Anders swings his legs back and forth in the air as he waits. He knows he shouldn’t fidget, but he hates not having his feet on the ground.

Maybe he should bolt for the door?  But he’d have to put his shoes on first. He wouldn’t be able to make it out of the door in time.

No, he supposes he should just get this over with. He doubts anyone would even notice if he came home in a different shirt, but they certainly would notice if he came home covered in blood. He doesn’t want to accept Mitchell’s help, really, but if he had to pick an option of drawing attention to himself and potentially remaining inconspicuous, well, he’s not always the idiot everyone seems to think he is.

Besides, he’s almost positive Mitchell will make him change anyways. He’s already gone to the trouble of finding the particular shirt he’s looking for. Who even holds on to a shirt that’s way too small for them anyways?

 _Someone who makes a habit of picking up way too small people_ , Anders thinks to himself.

Tiny legs slow to a stop before he slides off the chair. His heart beats a little faster as his hands reach up to the collar of his shirt. Might as well just get it over with. The sooner he gets the shirt, the sooner he can get out and put this night behind him.

Well, not quite yet. He still has to face the wrath of both Randy and Joe.

Anders hears soft footsteps approaching as he peels the shirt away from his body.

* * *

Mitchell stands in the doorway, frozen in shock.

He’d seen the bruises on the boys neck, made his own assumptions.

He knows it’s pretty bad. Figures the kid is being abused in some way.

But this.

This was something else.

There wasn’t an inch of skin on the boys back that was left unmarked. Where pale skin managed to gain a footing amongst the sea of blue and black, it was distorted by the bones that stuck out from underneath. Thin white lines criss cross an area of his right shoulder, raised from the skin ever so slightly, jagged and telling tales of cruelty.

The spectrum of shades, of deep reds where the bruise is still fresh, to the fading yellow of incidents past, create a network of abuse, a patchwork of pain and neglect, a map where the darker shades point to the path that was taken in an attempt to break the boy in front of him.

_How is he even still standing?_

Mitchell can count every rib, the 3rd from the bottom swollen, bone bent slightly, broken and never allowed to heal; every vertebrae, each knob covered with a bruise that he’s sure would spill it’s own secret; every bone jutting out, the skin taut and thin above them. He wonders when this kid last ate.

Instantly he’s reminded of the child in the morgue, the frail and lifeless body, and he shudders, thinking that it could just as easily have been this kid. The thought of this boy, this boy who’s name he doesn’t even know, showing up in that cold and empty room has Mitchell’s hair standing on end, skin crawling at the thought. He’d thought it so unnatural, blossoms of hurt on the skin of that child, but this. This is so much worse.

Mitchell has questioned his own humanity many times over the years, but never before has he had such cause to question someone else’s.

He’s never felt more removed from mankind either, incapable of understanding how someone could do this to a child; so defenceless, so innocent. It disgusts him.

His gaze lingers on a mark on the bottom left of the boys back, an almost square bruise with inflections of red splattered around it. He can smell the still open wound, knows the skin had been broken, and it’s as the realisation dawns on him that the mark is shaped exactly like a belt buckle, and he has to bite back the nausea pooling in his gut, that he notices the goosebumps spreading across the boys skin, the split-second moment where Mitchell can feel the tension crackle in the room, before it snaps as the boy whirls around to find Mitchell’s eyes upon him.

Mitchell tries to speak, finds his mouth completely dry, and has to cough before he averts his gaze and holds out the shirt.

“Here, this…” he’s not ashamed by the waver in his tone, the shake of his outstretched hand, “this, er, this should fit you.”

In the moment before he’d looked away Mitchell had caught sight of the boy’s front, the handprint shaped bruise around his neck even more prominent when joined by the matching ones on the boys ribcage. The boot-shaped print over his stomach.

“I’ll just… leave you to it.”

He waits to feel the tug of the shirt being pulled from his fingers before he forces himself to walk away, to step outside and feel the blast of ice-cold air on his face. He leans against the railing of the backyard porch, hands clenched so tight he can feel his nails biting into his palms. Palms that had only moments ago held the young boys. The growing comprehension that the boys hesitance at being touched was evidence of the depth of his ruin has Mitchell gagging on the bile in his mouth as he doubles over, gulping in lungfuls of air, willing himself not to throw up.

Mitchell takes several deep breaths, supporting himself against the rail as he pulls himself upright again. His hands instantly reach for the cigarettes in his pocket, air hissing as he lights one, lungs burning as he takes a long and slow drag.

_Fucking hell._

* * *

Icy air rushes into the house as Mitchell slides the back door open and shuts it again just as fast. Anders shivers, and it’s not entirely from the breeze.

He can’t get the look of blatant revulsion the guy had in his eyes after he saw his back. It’s been a while since he last forced himself to look. He’s sure it’s just as sickening as his chest and stomach. Anders is glad he turned left instead of right, effectively hiding the unpleasant green hue one of the many bruises on that side had taken on. It’s not the first time he’s seen a bruise turn green, but they usually fade into yellow quite quickly. This one seems to want to stick around. Though, maybe if he had just turned his library books in on time, he wouldn’t have gotten the bruise in the first place.

The material of the shirt is thicker than it looks and definitely softer than he thought it would be. He slides into it, the warmth of the fabric spreading through his skin as he buttons it up. It’s not quite flannel but thicker than cotton. It might just be the nicest thing Anders thinks he’s ever worn. Even if it is ugly plaid.

His appreciation of the shirt lasts about two whole seconds before he remembers the look on Mitchell’s face as he left.

He tries to wrack his brain to remember which bruises were on his back and where. He gets punished and bullied so often, it’s hard to really keep track. He knows for sure there’s the large bruise right above his hips from where he was slammed into the counter too hard after burning dinner. That one was just turning brown, almost fully healed. Then there’s the ones right in the middle of his spine from where a heavy boot had held him down while he was being reminded to wake Ty up in the morning so he wouldn’t miss the school bus. The bruises on his shoulders from all the lockers at school he keeps getting pushed into. But all of those have to be pretty mild. Nothing to cause such a look of pity and horror.

And then Anders remembers just the other day. The whip of the leather belt across his back; the welts that must still be healing. He had been caught out of bed, sneaking food when he shouldn’t be. But he had been so hungry.  Anders grimaces as he remembers the cold, sharp pain of the metal buckle branding itself into his skin.

It was the last thing he felt before he passed out.

So, that was why Mitchell looked so repulsed.

He was able to see every one of his mistakes, laid out before him like a feast for vultures. Everyone else picks his bones clean, why wouldn’t this man too? Anders knows the look of sympathy well; too well. He knows how to ignore it until he turns the corner or closes the door behind him. It’s not the pity that bothers him. It’s the blatant look of disgust to the point of nausea that has Anders blistering under his skin.

For some pathetic reason, Anders thought the asshole would see his bruises and just ignore them. But instead of the feigned ignorance he was used to, Mitchell gave him one of the most sickened looks Anders has ever seen. And he’s seen his classmates look at him. He’s seen his teachers and his neighbors averting their eyes in shame. He’s watched the look of malice turn into pure disgust in both of his parents’ eyes the moment they fall on their second born son.

He just thought that maybe Mitchell might be different.

But why would he be?

They never are, are they?

They say they wanna help, say they’re going to get him help, and then what do they do?

Attempt to dissuade his parents with the dreaded threat of CYF.  As if child services would even bother. As if these people would even call. And in the end, what does Anders get for it? He’s pretty sure his rib will never quite be the same. CYF might be better than the teachers who assume it’s all peer related. The ones that come around before dinner to have a chat about bullies with his parents and keep them from their poison of choice for an extra hour.

And even those are better than the ones who do nothing at all.

The people who see, but never speak.

But what does it matter? Anders doesn’t want or need their help. He doesn’t need their voice. He’s got it under control, most of the time. Ty gets a good night’s sleep most of the time, and he never worries about Mike. And if he’s careful, he can usually slip into bed before his parents and older brother see him.

He’s always awake when Mike comes home from work, or wherever he is, but he’s got the art of breathing like he’s asleep down to a perfection. Usually, Mike doesn’t care enough to wake him up.

Anders is grateful for that, though, because there’s always revulsion in his eyes too.

Shifting from one foot to the other, Anders glances at the door leading outside. His hands fumble with the long sleeves and he goes to roll them over so he can have use of his hands. He’s got to get going now, if he wants to back to the corner store before it closes. He has to pick up a bottle before he gets home. Even if he’s a minute past, Randy won’t let him in. And he really needs to get that bottle of vodka.

Sober Joe might be even worse than drunk Joe.

He supposes should at least say something to Mitchell, even if he’s afraid of seeing his eyes again. A simple ‘I’m taking off’ should suffice. He fidgets a little, trying to phrase what he wants to say in his mind. Even if it’s only a few words. They don’t come easy, now that Mitchell knows how pathetic and pitiful and useless he truly is.  

Anders never wanted to look weak to him. He never wanted to appear pathetic to anyone, let alone this asshole in particular.

So why is it that it’s all he ever seems to do?

With a deep breath, Anders pushes himself forward and heads to the back door. Better get it over with quick. No need to drag out the inevitable awkward dance that is goodbye.

* * *

The sound of the french door sliding open has Mitchell twitching, but he doesn't look back, doesn’t know if he can handle the sight of the bruises again. He takes another drag.

“It’s really not as bad as it looks.”

The timid voice has Mitchell shaking his head in disbelief, exhaling sharply before gritting his teeth and turning to look down at the boy.

He thinks it’s the placating tone of the words that really make everything somehow worse. It’s as if this boy is used to reassuring adults that everything’s okay, that it’s all going to be fine, when it so clearly should be the other way around.

The shirt drowns him, red plaid only further highlighting how pale he looks. He’s rolled the sleeves up several times; Mitchell can just see his little hands peeking out from below the cuffs. It should be endearing, but the bruises are still visible around the collar, and the shivering form and brightening cheeks have Mitchell stamping out his cigarette and hustling him back inside.

“It was your dad that did that to you, wasn’t it?” It’s not really a question. His tone brokers no argument, the inflection hard, exposing Mitchell’s conviction.

The boy shrugs a shoulder, barely concealing a wince at the discomfort to damaged bones.

“Which bit?” he smirks, wry and twisted and rueful.

It throws Mitchell off guard, the casual way the boy is just shrugging it off, like it’s no big deal. The resignation is clear in the slope of his shoulders, the flatness in his eyes. Mitchell feels every one of his years when he looks into those eyes.

He wants to press, wants to push the boy for answers, but he finds he can’t bring himself to cause more hurt to flash across that face.

He scratches a hand through his curls, rubbing his hand over his eyes, exhaustion washing over him at the situation he’s faced with. He can’t possibly let the boy leave, can’t let him walk out of his house and go back to surely another beating. No doubt that shopkeeper has called Joe, the man Mitchell assumes to be the boys father, by now. And yet. What else can he do? By trying to help him, he’s putting himself at risk too. He can’t afford to become too exposed, he’s spent his life blending into the shadows, surviving on going unnoticed. He knows how suspicious it will look if he suddenly takes a 13 year old boy in.

Mitchell realises the boy’s still waiting for him to answer. Not that he even knows what he would say. The boy's retaliating question was admittance enough as far as Mitchell is concerned.

“What were you doing buying alcohol anyway?” He blurts out instead.

“Seriously?” The boy quirks an eyebrow at him, but Mitchell keeps quiet, waits for him to continue.

“It. I was.. I mean,” the boy stumbles around the words, “it wasn’t for me or anything.” Blue eyes peek upward from under a furrowed brow; Mitchell discerning that the boy considers it important that Mitchell knows the alcohol wasn’t for him.

“Just Randy always sells it to me even though I’m underage ‘cos he knows I won’t touch the stuff. He knows it’s for my dad.” He pauses, pained expression pinching his eyebrows together. “Look I should really be getting back there, I still need to buy him some vodka.”

Mitchell sighs, pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“What brand?”

“What… what?” Features smooth out as confusion overrides dread.

“What brand does he drink?” Mitchell reaches for his coat, shucks it on, and checks his pocket for his wallet.

“Oh. Fenrir.” The boy studies him quizzically. “Why? I don’t need you to come with me.” The defensive tone is back.

Mitchell snorts, pulling his gloves on. “Kiddo, I’m not letting you go back to that store on your own. Wait here. I’ll go and get it for you.”

It’s clear from the look on the boys face that he’s torn between a scathing retort and the consideration that his face really might end up on the side of a milk carton.

“You can pay me when I get back. Just. Sit down,” he gestures at the living room area, “watch some TV if you like.”

The boy remains stock still, stony and unmoving. He looks like Mitchell’s just told him to build a rocket and ride it into space.

“Or just stand there for twenty minutes,” Mitchell says with a shrug, as he brushes past and opens the front door.

He walks out, catches himself, popping his head back in the door to see the kid still standing where Mitchell had left him, mouth gaping open slightly.

“I don’t have much in the fridge or cupboards, but since I know you’re gonna look, help yourself.”

This finally garners a response from the boy, who flushes a bright shade of pink at Mitchell’s comment.

Mitchell grins at him, hoping he’s lightened the mood somewhat, before turning and pulling the door closed behind him.

He was only teasing with his comment, but images of stark bones and skinny wrists and bodies on steel float in front of his eyes, and he can’t help but pray as he walks away that the boy will actually take heed of his words.

_Help yourself. Please just help yourself._

* * *

The lock clicks shut with a resounding _thunk._

Anders shifts his weight from one foot to the other, watching the door for a second. He thinks maybe the sound should scare him. That the thought of being here alone, should make him nervous. And maybe it does, a little.

But mostly, Anders thinks it might not really be that bad.

Sure, no one knows where he is right now. If Mitchell is in fact, a murderer, Anders would think he might have reason to be terrified. But if Mitchell really wanted him dead, he probably would be dead by now. Anders is pretty sure he’s not a killer.

Doesn’t really seem to have it in him either, he thinks, as he eyes start to slowly drift away from the door and around the room. They’re cautious, slow, like someone might be watching him. Like he’s not allowed to look around.

Anders is no stranger to the knowledge that often times, it’s just better to keep your eyes on the ground.

Well, Mitchell said he could look around. And he’s curious. He hasn’t had much of a chance to look around people’s houses, despite always being curious about what other people’s lives must look like. If it's a different home; a normal home.

Anders’ fingers fidget a little. He _thinks_ Mitchell wouldn’t lie about saying he could look around.

Mitchell will be gone twenty minutes, tops. The thought makes Anders shift uncomfortably. Again, he thinks about how no one knows where he is. But as he thinks about it, he realises, that _no one_ knows where he is. _He’s safe._ For at least twenty minutes. No one is here. No one can see him. He’s allowed to do whatever he wants for twenty minutes, and no one can really stop him. Well, almost whatever he wants.

The freedom itches under his skin; leaves it crawling and too warm. Like something’s scratching under the surface, under the fresh and old bruises, the bright and faded scars, moving under his ugly skin trying to tear its way out.

With another glance around, Anders thinks it’s only been two minutes since Mitchell left. He thinks, spitefully to himself, that he _should_ just stand there for all eighteen of his remaining minutes. Remind Mitchell that he doesn’t need his help. Not to mention, keeping himself from putting himself in trouble. He’s already in enough as it is.

But curiosity sinks its treacherous claws into him.

With one last glance at the door, Anders walks towards the small kitchen. He keeps his ears open, listening just in case Mitchell forgot something. Or maybe wanted to catch Anders in the act.

He’s not going to take anything. He just wants to look.

The cupboard creaks as he pulls it open and he winces a little at the noise. It sounds too loud in the silence of the house. Anders doesn’t think he’s ever heard anything this quiet in his entire life.

Anders can’t really see into the cupboard so he pushes up on his toes, glancing into the bottom shelf. A small gasp he’s not even aware he was going to make comes out his mouth, filling the space around him.

 _Not much, my ass_ , Anders thinks to himself as he takes in the colorful bags of crisps and packages of other miscellaneous junk food. Things he could never have at home. He cranes his neck a little and tries to see the top shelf. There’s a few more bright labels up there, but he can’t quite make out what they are.

Who could possibly eat all this junk food?

The fridge serves him no better. It is a bit empty, but no more so than his own at home. It’s the contents that are far more interesting. There’s still plenty of milk left, which means Mitchell won’t have to eat cold cereal without milk. There’s a bit of sandwich meat left, which Anders almost prods with his finger. He’s looking. Not touching.

There’s some more junk food in here, too. He thinks, maybe, that it should be kind of pathetic a grown man eats this much garbage, but really, Anders secretly wishes his kitchen looked like this at home. Not that it would ever happen.

Booze is expensive.

His stomach growls as he opens a container of leftovers. It smells like the Chinese restaurant down the street from his house. Anders entertains the idea of grabbing a fork from one of the drawers and just devouring the whole container.

With a poorly hidden look of disappointment, Anders closes the lid and slides it back into the exact place he took it from. The fridge shuts quietly and he presses on the handle, just to make sure it’s fully closed. His refrigerator has the tendency to swing open if he doesn’t double check.

Anders heads back into the living room, looking around the walls of the room as he does. There’s an eclectic feel to the house, as everything seems to range in style. The lamp in the corner definitely looks like it’s from the 70s. The couch certainly has seen better days. Though, when Anders walks over to it, he notes that it looks pretty clean for an old couch. He sits down, careful and slow, on the edge of the couch. It’s surprisingly comfortable.

Anders stands up and crosses the room to the bookshelf. He’s had his eye on it since he walked in. It’s solid oak; old, but sturdy. His fingers reach up to graze the wood. He’d love a bookshelf like this at home. Maybe Mike could show him how to build one, one of these days.

Snorting loudly, he lets his hand falls from the wood to his side. Yeah, and his parents will stop drinking one of these days, too.

Eyes scan over a few of the titles on the shelf, some standing out in his mind as they pass over them. _All Quiet on the Western Front, To Kill a Mockingbird, A Farewell to Arms, The Trial._

Anders pulls away from the allure of the books. If he reads anymore titles, he’s going to get sucked into reading all the titles he can see and pulling several books down from the shelves he can reach. And he wants to explore the rest of the house while he’s still safe to do so. He knows he really shouldn’t, but at this point, he might as well at least see how many bedrooms there are.

Feet move near silently across the floor as he makes his way back towards the hall that must lead to the bedrooms. He’s sure the door off the kitchen must lead to the basement. He’s never really been fond of basements, so he moves on quickly.

With one last peek at the door, Anders turns down the hall and walks to the first door. His hand reaches up, hesitates over the doorknob, before he finally closes the distance and opens the door. The room is empty, save for a few boxes littered on the floor. There are records and tapes piled into some of them, odd little trinkets in others. Nothing Anders can quite make out without poking around.

Even with the boxes, the empty room feels so much larger than his shared bedroom at home. Mike seems to take up a lot more space than his little brother does. Though, when Anders had the balls to complain once, he had gotten a snide short joke thrown back in his face for his efforts. He figured it really wasn’t worth pushing the point. He didn’t really need that much space anyways.

Still, he would have much rather have shared a room with Ty instead. He would never throw things at him or make a mess and then expect him to clean it up. Ty’s a good kid, most of the time.

The empty room feels oddly alluring to him and Anders leaves it with a pang of sadness. He doesn’t really understand. Maybe it’s the emptiness that looks almost desperate to be filled. Maybe it’s the loneliness of all the items carelessly forgotten, cast aside to gather a fine layer of dust.

Anders shuts the door and heads to the next one. He’s a little less hesitant as he pushes the door open this time. Just as he figured, the bathroom comes into view as he clicks on the light. His eyes dart around the room, taking in every inch. It’s oddly clean for a bathroom. The shower only has a few things in it, just enough for one person. There’s only one toothbrush sitting on the sink.

He _knew_ Mitchell lived on his own. No one that annoying has friends.

Anders should know best, after all.

Just as he’s about to turn away, something catches his eye. To be specific, the lack of something.

Above the sink, where a mirror _should_ be, is just tile wall. He quirks his brow, looking at the empty space. There was definitely a mirror there at one point, but the hooks used to affix one are covered in dust, too.

What kind of freak doesn’t have a mirror?

Anders’ lips twitch at the thought. He shouldn’t jump to conclusions about the peculiarity of it. Maybe it had been broken and never got replaced. Maybe the house never came with one, to begin with. Maybe Mitchell doesn’t like his face any more than Anders likes his own. Most days, he doesn’t like looking in the mirror at himself either.

The combination of the dark bruises over hollow cheeks and under bloodshot eyes does nothing to help him feel any better about himself. He tries his best not to catch glimpses of himself when he’s brushing his teeth in the morning. He doesn’t like himself. Being forced to look at all the reasons no one likes him either, written all over his skin, is hardly something he looks forward to.

Shaking his head, Anders pushes away from the bathroom and lets the door click shut behind him. He thinks about how much time has passed and he thinks he’s still got a few minutes left. Just enough time to take a once-over and head back to the couch where he’s supposed to be. As he steps up to the last door in the hall, he strains his ears, listening for any sign that Mitchell is coming home.

When he doesn’t hear anything, he begins to open the door. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. Mitchell’s room is private and he has no business or reason to be in there. Just a quick look.

The door opens with a loud creak and Anders thinks maybe the asshole might consider WD-40’ing it.

The first thing he notices, is that Mitchell’s bedroom is actually kind of messy. The rest of the house was relatively clean. Maybe a mug here, or an empty bottle there, but nothing actually dirty. Well, aside from the ashtrays that seemed to litter every flat surface of the house.

In the bedroom, though, there’s clothes on the floor and papers and records piled haphazardly on the desk. Two of the dresser drawers are pulled out with shirts spread out beneath them. They look clean from the doorway, like they had been pulled out one by one and discarded in search for the _exact_ shirt.

Before he realises what he’s doing, Anders is crossing the landmine that is Mitchell’s floor and bending down to pick up the bundle of clean clothes. It’s a habit. Rooms need to be clean. There’s no excuse for leaving things on the floor. Ty used to be notoriously bad about forgetting to pick up his toys.

His hands stop, catching himself before he disturbs the pile. If he had touched them, Mitchell would know he was in here. And if Mitchell knew he was in here, surely he would be pissed. Anders doesn’t know what Mitchell would do, but from past experience, he’s sure it’s nothing good.

As he’s about to turn back, the book on the nightstand catches his eye. It’s got a bookmark in it, and he can make out several dog-eared pages. It looks as if it’s been read many, many times. Either it’s one of Mitchell’s favorites, or a recent thrift buy.

Either way, someone clearly loved the book, and Anders feels like he has to know what book it is. It’s a compulsion. One he wishes he could stamp out before it gets him into trouble. Expert feet cross the distance without disturbing anything.

His fingers barely graze the back cover of the book, edges worn down and dust jacket long gone, when he hears the front door slam shut. He hadn’t even heard the keys in the door. His eyes dart to the open bedroom door and the miles and miles of space between it and him. He’ll never make it.

His body starts shaking, trembling from head to foot. He’s fucked.

He’s so fucked.

Anders does the first thing he can think of doing. Trick number zero.

_Hide._

 


	3. One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we tried to get this out a little earlier but life happens. sorry! but we promise it was worth the wait!

It takes Mitchell longer than he’d like to walk back to the liquor store. The concern for the boy he’d left behind was overwhelming, the welts on the boy’s back still fresh in Mitchell’s mind. He still couldn’t understand it, how someone could be so cruel. He’d lived a long life and seen a lot of horrors, but none that made as little sense as this. Even vampires didn’t play with their food.

He hopes the boy has made himself at home, wishful thinking pulling up images of him sitting in front of the TV, stuffing his face with Mitchell’s left over chinese. Maybe pulling over a chair so that he could reach the higher shelves where Mitchell stashes all his junk food. The thought of the boy straining to reach Mitchell’s shelf has a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but as he rounds the aisles of the store it’s wiped away when he remembers what had happened the last time the boy had tried that.

The shards of glass have been long-cleared away, but the echo of the crash still lingers in the air, like the spirit of a ghost not yet departed. The smell of bleach hits Mitchell and he cringes at the thought of the blood that was spilled. It seems sacrilegious to him, in a twisted sense, to take something so pure and wash it away like it’s nothing, as though it holds no significance.

He glances up at the top shelf, worrying momentarily when he can’t see the brand the kid had mentioned, before blowing out his cheeks in an exhale when he spots a lone bottle resting at the back.

_There’s no way he ever would have been able to reach that._

Sighing, he pulls the bottle down, taking it over to the counter to pay, grabbing a box of teabags on his way past. His emotions are already on wafer thin ice; he’s not sure he’ll cope much longer without the tea.

Reaching the till, he’s grateful to see a young girl manning the counter instead of the drunken shopkeeper from before. The girl can’t be older than 18 or 19, blond hair curls falling into her face as she ducks her head and gazes up at him through her lashes. Grateful, that is, until he realises that she’s flirting with him, or trying to anyway, and he has to bite back a comment about how the smell of the layers of fake tan she’s wearing is making him gag. He smiles stiffly at her, no emotion behind it, unable to stop himself from comparing her lackluster eyes with the cerulean blue of the boy he’d left behind. She had no chance. Not that he’d ever really been into girls anyway, they were just easier to snare and feed from back when he’d first been turned.

 _She wouldn’t have even made a nice meal,_ he thinks callously, as he grabs his shopping and the receipt, crumpling it in his fist as he exits the store. The anger he feels is still at the forefront of his mind, and he stops outside to light a cigarette, pushing his rage down to curdle with the smoke in his lungs.

He tries to blank his mind as he walks home, letting himself drift. He realises how invested he was becoming in this boy’s situation, wonders at how quickly he’d come to care about him.

_When did I grow so lonely that I didn’t even realise how empty my own life is?_

He’d never settled in places too long, oftentimes encounters with vampires who didn’t approve of how he’d chosen to live his life had chased him away. But it occurs to him now that perhaps he’d simply never found a true reason to stay in a place before, he’d never laid down roots or made connections that couldn’t be severed with a simple note. He’d been in Auckland for almost two years now, drawn in by the perceived anonymity of running to the edge of the globe. The job he had at the morgue was ideal, perfect for his needs at least, if not for his battered soul.

As he approached his front door, he caught a coasting breeze of wind. He’d always imagined the sea air to be calming, soothing on the mind, and it was one of the things that had drawn him to Auckland. But today, it riled in him like a gathering storm, every breath he took breaking in his chest like the waves on the beach.

Shifting the shopping bag into the crook of his elbow, Mitchell reaches for his keys to open the front door. It creaks open, Mitchell thinking ruefully as he does every time, that he really needs to remember to buy some WD40 next time he goes out; knowing deep down that he probably never will.

He can’t help but crook a small smile at the sight of his empty hallway. The curiosity of youth never fails to amuse him. He heads into the kitchen, flicking on the kettle, humming to himself as he pulls a mug down from the rack. Whilst it boils, he pokes his head into the living room, expecting to see the boy sitting there. He frowns when he sees that he isn’t. It hits him, then, how quiet it is in the house.

Puzzled, he returns to the kitchen and opens the fridge, dismayed to see that his food has remained untouched. He’s not all that surprised really, but still. He’d held out a lot of hope that the boy would have made himself at home. He chastises himself for his foolishness; _he doesn’t even know me._

“Kiddo!” he yells into the silence, the quiet of his house which he usually finds so comforting unnerving now.

There’s no reply.

Kettle and mug abandoned, he returns to the hall, noting with a growing confusion that the boys tiny shoes are still by the front door.

With his eyebrows knitting even further together, he heads up the staircase. “Kid?” he calls, softer this time, not wanting to startle him. The only response he gets is the creak of the floorboards on the landing, groaning up at him as if trying to convey a message. He notices his bedroom door stands ajar, wonders if perhaps the boy went to lay down. He wouldn’t blame him, the dark shadows circling the boys eyes had told of more than just a punch to the face.

He steps into the room, cringing at the mess, evidence of his frantic search to find a shirt for the boy to wear. Nothing seems out of place though, the whole house in fact appears untouched. He’d half expected, half _hoped_ the boy would go rifling through his things, maybe helping himself to a book to read, or some food to eat. He can’t shake it, the image of taut skin stretched tight across protruding bones a picture that Mitchell knows he won’t forget anytime soon. He’s seen skeletons wheeled into the morgue with more fat on them.  

He can’t help the defeated “ _Oh…_ ” that flutters past his lips as he spots the small ball curled up under his desk.

He’d forgotten how tiny the boy was.

He’s sitting with his head buried in his knees, arms wrapped around his legs, Mitchell’s shirt swamping his form as his hands barely peek out from where the cuffs have fallen down again. _He’s so pathetically small,_ Mitchell thinks, _how could someone hurt him?_

His first instinct is to rush over there, pull him out from the tight space and tell him he’s not mad. He yearns to pull him into his lap and roll his sleeves back up and tell him that everything will be okay. He wants to take him away from this place, take him far away where he’ll never be hurt again.

He can’t though. He knows he can’t.

Moving loudly across the floor to announce himself, remembering how the boy had grown more frightened when Mitchell had approached him too quickly in the store, he crouches down in front of where the now-shaking form is huddled.

“Hey,” he says, keeping his tone light, soothing. “I got the vodka. It’s in the kitchen. What are you doing under there huh?”

The boy shakes even harder, the desk now rattling ever so slightly against the wall.

Mitchell feels a pang of sympathy so strong it aches in his chest. He’s never met anyone so damaged in all his life, and he’s lived a long one. He’s at a loss for what to do, none of his life experience offering up anything helpful, but he decides right then and there that no matter what he’s going to help this kid, going to try and save him where no one was able to save himself. The thought of seeing this little boy rolled into his morgue, broken beyond his ability to repair, has him welling with a sadness he hasn’t felt since he’d learned of the deaths of his family.

The desire to just to reach out and draw the boy into a hug grows within him again, but he knows it’s a bad idea. Knows already how even the slightest touch has the boy wincing away in fear. But at the same time he thinks maybe, just maybe, if he can show the boy that he can touch him without hurting him, he can get his attention and calm him down.

“It’s okay,” he says instead, “I don’t care that you’re in my room.” He senses that that’s the root of the problem, that the boy thinks he’s going to get hit for trespassing. Not that Mitchell thinks he is trespassing though, he honestly doesn’t mind the boy being in his room. It’s the fact that he’s hiding under Mitchell’s desk that bothers him; he doesn’t want the boy to be afraid of him. He’s tired of people looking at him in fear.

The lack of response has Mitchell questioning what to do next. _What is he supposed to do?_ He thinks maybe he should just try and touch him, to see if it will provoke some kind of response, but he’s hesitant to upset him further. He feels so conflicted, pained at the well of hopelessness opening up inside of him. He’s never felt so out of his depth before. He takes a breath and gathers himself. _If you want him to help him you need to get a grip first Mitchell._ He decides that he’ll at least try and touch him, try and show him that physical contact can provide comfort as well as pain. Physical contact is _supposed_ to provide comfort.

Tentatively, he reaches out a hand and ever so gently lays it on the boys shoulder. He feels the muscles there bunch and tense, preparing themselves for a blow that Mitchell would never lay. He rests it there, applying no pressure.

“That’s why you’re upset isn’t it?” he continues, hoping the sound of his voice will bring the boy back to the here and now, will give him something to ground himself too. “It’s okay, I promise I don’t mind. If I hadn’t wanted you to come in here I would have locked the door when I left.” He tries to keep his voice level but not patronising; he doesn't want to make the boy feel weak or ashamed.

He thinks he can feel the shaking beginning to subside, and he really hopes this is working, that he hasn't made a mistake by touching him. He doesn’t squeeze or move his hand as he lowers himself from the crouch he is in, to sitting on the floor so that he’s at the same level as the boy.

“What did you come in here for, though? I’m not mad,” he hastens to add, “I’m just curious.”

He waits, the silence stretching so long that he thinks the boy might never reply, when he hears a tiny voice.

“Book.”

Mitchell’s brow furrows, and he tilts his head in confusion. He’s about to ask again because he doesn’t think he heard right, _all of his books are downstairs_ , when he catches sight of the book on his nightstand.

“Ah okay, have you read that one?” he hopes that if he keeps asking questions he might be able to draw the boy out from under the desk. He glances over at the book. It’s a Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby he thinks. To be honest he’d gotten so bored with it it had just been sat on the side gathering dust for weeks now.

The silent response makes Mitchell realise that the boy might not have even had a chance to see what it was before he had come home. Careful not to jostle the hand still touching the boy, he leans over, grateful for his height that he’s able to just grip the edge of the book with his fingertips.

“I don’t know if you saw what it was before? It’s The Great Gatsby. You probably haven’t read it, you’re too young. It’s -”

“I have read it.”

The tiny admission cutting across Mitchell shocks him. It crosses his mind that the kid must evidently be a lot smarter than he lets on.  He waits, hoping the boy might say more.

“Did you like it? he asks, glancing down at the cover of the book when it becomes clear that the boy isn’t going to speak further.

A tiny nod from the boy registers in his peripheral, and he looks back over at him, noting how the hands wrapped around his knees seem to be clutching less tightly.

“I thought it was really boring,” Mitchell huffs, smiling when the remark prompts the boy to actually uncurl a little more, blonde head finally rising from where it’s been buried between knees.

“Gatsby isn’t boring,” his tone is ever so slightly indignant, an inflection that Mitchell imagines has been the cause of a beating more than once. He finds it amusing however, and can’t help but feel relieved and excited that not only does the boy seem to be calming enough to look up at Mitchell now, but that he dared to contradict him as well. He’d half expected the boy to just agree with him rather than potentially risk annoying him. Not that it would, mind. It had been so many years since Mitchell had been able to actually discuss something with another person.

“Oh yeah? I’ll be honest; I didn’t even make it to the end. Everyone just seemed so shallow.” It’s no lie, he’d truly not been a fan of the book, had struggled to relate to any of the characters materialism and greed.

The boy shrugs. “I liked it.”

“Well I guess you’ll have to tell me how it ends then?” he asks, hoping to fully draw the boy out and into a conversation. He seems to have relaxed somewhat, but he’s still huddled under the desk and doesn't appear to be moving anytime soon.

Mitchell’s hand is still resting on the boys shoulder, and he feels the muscles tense again at his comment. This is different though, not the tension of fear but rather a motion of reluctance.

“I never finished it either,” the boy says quietly, looking back down at his knees again.

“Oh,” Mitchell exhales, the conversation he’d been trying to build falling flat.

“Well, what other books do you like to read?” he tries, but only gets another shrug in return, the boy appearing to curl back into himself again.

He frowns, mind racing as he tries to think of what to say next. He’s saved in the end, however, by the timid voice of the boy before him.

“You have a lot of books. I… I saw when I was downstairs.” The boy tenses again but Mitchell’s not annoyed, he’s elated in fact.

“I know, I seem to hoard them,” he says with a smile, “what did you think?”

The boy slumps a little, body exhausted.

“I didn’t really get a good look,” he mumbles, unable to hide the disappointment colouring his tone. He looks so defeated, it only serves to break Mitchell’s heart a little further.

“I’ll tell you what kiddo, why don’t you come out from under there and come downstairs with me and we can take a look?” He can’t quite keep his voice from sounding patronising, and he’s startled when the boys blue eyes dance up to meet his, anger flashing across them.

“Maybe I would if you’d get out of the way,” he snaps, shaking off Mitchell’s hand.

Mitchell’s dumbfounded. His mouth hangs open as his hand still hovers in the space between them.

“I… Yeah. Sorry.” he says shortly, scrambling out of the way and going to hover by the door, dumping the book back on the nightstand as he does. His frown is back with a vengeance, and he can’t help but feel a little irritated. He was only trying to help after all, and the kid just went and bit his hand off. _I doubt anyone else is trying to be nice to him,_ he scoffs, shaking his head in annoyance.

Guilt instantly floods his system however, when he catches sight of the hesitant way the boy glances about before coming out from under the desk, eyes darting as if searching for monsters in the shadows. _He doesn’t realise the monster he’s looking for is standing right in front of him,_ he thinks, the words bitter in his mind.

Mitchell’s irritation is completely lost in the wave of regret, the pang of sorrow throbbing inside of him, and in that moment he feels just as shallow as the characters he just professed to hate, feels every bit the monster that he truly is.

“You coming, kiddo?” he says when the boy seems hesitant to leave the room.

“My name’s not kiddo, you know,” he toes at the carpet, avoiding eye contact.

“Well, yeah I kinda figured,” Mitchell sighs at the pitiful sight before him. Tiny hands pull at the fabric of the worn shirt, eyes looking everywhere but up at Mitchell. “Why won’t you tell me your name?”

The boy shrugs again and Mitchell wonders how his shoulders don’t ache from the frequency at which he does so.

“No one’s ever really cared before.”

The boy’s voice wavers, lower lip wobbling, in a display of emotion that Mitchell hadn’t seen before. Depressing as the thought is, grinding at Mitchell’s already fraught emotions and willing him to go over there and hold him, he can’t help but feel relieved at the sight of the tears welling in the boys eyes. Relieved that he hasn’t been so far broken that he’s unable to show any emotion at all.

The relief doesn’t outweigh the anguish, however.

Throughout his long life, all he’s ever wanted is to disappear; slink into the shadows and live his life at the ignorance of others. But now, standing here in his messy room with only his fucked up existence to blame for his loneliness, he can’t imagine how it must feel to have it forced upon you; to be ignored when all you want is for someone to actually notice you, to realise you exist and care for you.

He can’t imagine how it must feel to have never been shown love at all. He’s known love in his life, his family a distant memory but a memory all the same, the pain of losing them having ebbed and been replaced with a bittersweet fondness.

Sadness beats away at him, pulsing into his every nerve. He swallows, throat constricting around the lump he hadn’t realised had formed.

“I care.” He says it with such forceful sincerity he can see the boy flinch as the words hit him.  

“Why?” The boys shoulders sag again, and Mitchell again has to repress the urge to reach out and touch him. It’s his turn to shrug, folding his arms and leaning back against the doorframe.

“Maybe I’m just lonely too.”

The boy snorts, a small smile creeping over his face. Mitchell notes for the first time that when he smiles, dimples form in his cheeks. He finds it adorable, but promptly decides not to voice that thought out loud. The boy bristles quicker than a hedgehog.

“I knew you were too annoying to have friends,” the boy teases, and once again Mitchell’s laughter echoes between them, chasing away the weight of the moment before.

“Well, now, that’s just rude,” he banters back, slowly coming to the realisation that by talking to the kid as though he were just a mate, and an adult, was actually more effective than trying to soothe him.

The boy sticks his tongue out at him, _actually sticks his tongue out,_ before glancing around the room again and heading towards the door.

“You’re really messy by the way,” he says as he passes.

“Excuse me?” Mitchell calls, following him down the hall and back down the stairs **.**

“I said you’re messy.”

“No I heard you loud and clear, but you’re like what, 12? I can’t imagine your room is pristine.”

“I’m 13 actually,” the boy says, “14 in August. And my side of the room is!” He seems to take it as a personal affront that Mitchell would think he’s messy.

“Your side?” Mitchell asks, the boy pausing in the hall as he realises what he’s given away, “you have siblings?”

Mitchell tries to keep it casual as he heads over to the bookshelf, waiting until he hears socked feet padding across the floorboards towards him before he glances back. He wonders what the boys siblings are like, wonders if they’re older or younger, if they suffer as he suffers. It upsets him to think of there being others in that house who are treated the same way as this kid. 

“Two brothers,” is all he offers before heading straight past Mitchell to get closer to the massive shelf, ignoring his look of curiosity.

The serene calm that spreads across the boys face as he gazes in wonder at the virtual library in front of him has Mitchell dropping the subject. He can’t help but think again of how cute he looks, dimples deepening as his eyes rove over the hundreds of titles.

_Cute for a little shit anyway._

Mitchell lets him browse to his heart’s content, disappearing briefly to get them both a drink. He pauses for a moment in the kitchen, allowing the steam from his brewing tea to wash over him and calm his mind. _Finally,_ he thinks, his improving mood helped by the fact that the boy takes his drink without a flinch when Mitchell’s fingers graze his.

The boy’s spare hand, the one that isn’t now clutching the glass of orange juice, hovers in front of the shelf. Tiny fingers trace the air just above the spines of the books. They twitch slightly, reverent and nervous; afraid to touch what isn't his to touch.

Mitchell wants to tell him it’s okay, he can touch them if he wants to, but as he’s about to do so the hand drops, a wistful sigh escaping the boy’s parted lips.

“What’s the verdict then?”

The boy jumps at the sound of Mitchell’s voice, as though he’d forgotten he was there, so lost as he was in the tomes in front of him.

“There’s a lot of older books here, and lots about the wars.”

Mitchell can’t help but laugh at this, and the boy stares at him like he’s grown a second head. He can imagine how odd it must look for a seemingly 24 year old guy to be into books like that.

“What’s wrong with liking history?” he asks.

The boy bristles again, evidently thinking Mitchell is making fun of him.

Mitchell apologises, but he can’t stop smiling. “I have a bit of a fascination with the 1920s if you must know.”

A fascination born of a life not lived.

The boy shrugs, _again_ , before turning back to the shelf again. “You don’t have much poetry either.”

Mitchell can’t help but raise an eyebrow at this. “You like poetry?”

The surprise must have been obvious because the boy tenses again, expecting a taunt to follow.

But, “I love Poe,” is all Mitchell says, stepping forward and pulling a volume off one of the highest shelves to hand to the boy.

He hesitates before taking it, setting his glass down on the coffee table before cradling the book in his palms. His fingers trail ghost-like over the cover, barely touching it.

“Who’s your favourite?” Mitchell asks, finding himself intensely curious as to the answer. He realises how much he’s enjoying this; the boys company.

“Keats is okay,” he says **,** handing the book back, thrusting his hands in his pockets immediately afterwards as though scared Mitchell was going to hand him another. He winces as it pulls on the bandage around his hand, glancing towards the clock on the wall by the door. The pull on his wound seems to bring reality crashing back to him.

His eyes widen when he sees the time.

“I should really get going,” he says, picking up his glass and going to the kitchen to rinse it.

“It’s okay, leave it,” Mitchell calls, rooted to the spot as he realises with an unexpected sadness that he doesn’t want the boy to leave, doesn’t want to be left alone with his empty house and dusty books, with only his thoughts for company.

The boy re-emerges from the kitchen, bottle of vodka clasped in his unbandaged hand as he approaches Mitchell. He fishes some money out of his pocket, thrusting it forward at Mitchell and into his unsuspecting hand.  

“Thanks for… you know.” He blushes, ears turning an endearing shade of pink as he turns away and heads to the door to put his shoes on.

Mitchell follows him out into the hall. “I don’t need this,” he says, trying to hand the money back. The boys bats his hand away from where he’s sitting on the floor as he does his laces.

“I didn’t even pay you for the… for before,” he replies, getting to his feet and snatching up the vodka from the floor. He holds it close to his chest, keeping it steady in his hands, unwillingly to drop this one too.

“I don’t want your money,” Mitchell tries to reason, but the venom is back in the boys tone as he cuts across him. 

“Look you have to take it okay. I can’t have money. I can’t just not pay you.”

Mitchell picks up on the panic starting to well within the boy, the fear at the brewing disagreement causing his hands to shake on the bottle. He lets the boy put space between them, an idea taking shape in his mind.

“How about this then, if you want to make up what you owe me for the other bottle, why don’t you come back over and do some chores for me? Given that I’m so messy and all,” he hopes the tease will calm the boy down like it did before. He feels cheap to be using the boy like that, but he reasons with himself that he isn’t actually going to make him do anything really, he just wants him to think that he is so that he has an excuse to get away from his dad and be somewhere safe where Mitchell can keep an eye on him.

 _Maybe they can talk more about poetry_ , Mitchell thinks.

The boy still looks hesitant though, bottle still trembling in his grasp.

“Nothing serious, I was just thinking that maybe you could help me organise my bookshelf, you seem much more clued up than me on that front,” he winks down at the boy, and the bottle stills, “maybe you could help me unpack some of the boxes in the spare room too, and it’ll need decorating.”

The boy stares at him, holding onto the bottle like it’s a life raft in a sea of uncertainty. Slowly, ever so slowly, he nods.

“Okay.”

Mitchell can’t help the grin spreading across his face, and a thought occurs to him, and he dashes back upstairs, yelling over his shoulder at the boy to wait there.

Anders stands there in confusion, glancing back to the front door and then up at where Mitchell’s disappeared. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, too aware of the time slipping through his fingers. He doesn’t have time for this. He’s already so late. He has to get home, _now._ Just as he’s about to sneak away, Mitchell reappears, breathless but with glee radiating from his face as he holds his hand out to Anders.

“Here, take this.” He thrusts the hand forward, and it’s only then that Anders realises he’s holding his battered copy of The Great Gatsby. “You can tell me how it ends next week.” Mitchell’s grin is so bright it’s practically blinding, and Anders reaches out to grab the book before he hurts himself.

He clutches it even tighter than the vodka bottle. No one’s ever given him anything before.

He looks up at Mitchell in disbelief, but there’s no hesitancy there, no punch line waiting to be lashed out and the book snatched away.

He can’t help but feel the excitement building at the thought of finally being able to finish it.

“I don’t… I…” he trails off, unable to find the words to express his thanks, still staring at the book in his hands in wonder.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything. I’ll just see you next week okay, kiddo?”

“Anders,” he blurts out. Mitchell looks down at him in confusion and once again he can feel his ears burning in embarrassment.

“It’s… My name,” he coughs, “it’s Anders.”

His cheeks turn bright pink as his eyes fall to the floor, clearly embarrassed by his outburst. Mitchell can feel the smile tugging at his lips. It’s such an honest display of emotion; one that doesn’t involve fear or panic.

“Hmm,” Mitchell rubs at the stubble on his cheek. “Anders,” he tries the name out on his tongue. The boy looks up at him, his body straightening a little. The way he squares his shoulders makes Mitchell absolutely positive he’s been teased about it before.

“It’s different,” he says after a second, rocking a little on his heels. “I don’t think I’ve ever met another Anders.”

Anders deflates in front of him, his shoulders sagging. He looks like he’s debating telling Mitchell off.

“Yeah, thanks,” he replies after a second, a before adjusting the bottle and the book in his arms. “I have to go.” His tone is brisque as he turns to head to the door.

“I like it,” Mitchell calls after him, grin plastered to his face as Anders glances back at him over his shoulder.

“It’s definitely better than asshole,” Anders shrugs a little and opens the front door. Mitchell stares after him, the door shutting almost silently as Anders disappeared behind it.

_What a fucking brat._

 

* * *

 

 

Anders pauses outside his house, shuffling the vodka bottle as he reaches in his pocket for his keys. He nearly drops the book cradled in his arm, but catches it before it can slipcompletely. He knows he’s been gone so much longer than he should have. He’s probably going to get his ass beat for that. But at least he’s got the bottle, and really, that’ll definitely soothe the tide of anger before it can completely drag his father under.

With a quiet creak, Anders pushes the door open slowly and as silently as possible. He listens for any signs of his father, unable to hear anything but the sound of the door and his hesitant feet creeping in.

_Maybe he went to bed already?_

Anders’ pulse races. It would be a good thing for him tonight, but the morning would be a whole different story.

Anders shivers.

The house is colder inside than the temperature outside. Oddly enough, it’s not as bad as he remember it being when he left the house earlier. His brow furrows as he slowly shuts the door and carefully kicks off his shoes. He did walk as fast as he could home, but it definitely wasn’t enough to combat the frigid temperature in the home.

Anders looks down at his body. _The shirt_. Right. The hideous plaid shirt Mitchell had let him have. Or borrow. He would give it back to him when he returned this weekend to do chores. Along with the book. Anders’ shoulders sag. The shirt feels heavy on his back and the book like a weight tucked under his arm. Why had he said yes to borrowing these things? He said yes to the chores because he has an obligation to pay Mitchell back for the broken bottle of whiskey.

He can still smell it around him from where it soaked into his jeans.

He looks at his hands, little drops of red peeking through the right side of the stark white bandage. He sets down the bottle of vodka and hitches the book higher underneath his arms. Tugging at his sleeves, he makes quick work to pull them down a bit more so they cover his hand completely. No need to draw attention to his wounds.

Anders listens carefully for any sign of his father or mother. If they are home, they must be sleeping because they’re certainly not fighting.

Glancing at the clock, Anders decides he should check in on Ty before he goes to bed. He wants to make sure he’s okay and that his dad didn’t take out his anger on his little brother for his own mistake of taking too long.

He makes every footfall sure and silent down the hall. He knows every floorboard to avoid by heart. He lets himself into his brother’s room, using the trick he’s learned to keep the door from groaning. With one hand applying pressure to the wood near the hinges, he turns the knob and lets himself in.

“ _Ty_ ,” he whispers into the dark, noting that Ty’s night light is off. He wonders if it went out or if Ty shut it off to keep away the real monsters that prowl outside his bedroom, rather than the fake ones that lurk inside. Anders learned the hard way that nightlights draw attention.

“Anders?” his little brother’s voice whispers back, the sound of blankets shuffling as he sits up.

“Yeah, it’s me. Do you know where Joe is?” Anders closes the door just as quietly and shuffles over to his brother’s bed.

“Dad? I don’t think he’s here. I think he left.” Ty turns to his nightlight and clicks it on. Anders blood feels cold in his body when he takes in the red marks on Ty’s cheek. Fingers hover just over Ty’s face. He pushes aside the growing dread in the pit of his stomach.

“Did he hurt you before he left?”

Ty sits silently for a moment and Anders shivers. “Yeah, I got mad because he started yelling at Mom.”

Anders sighs and sits down next to Ty. He really wishes he could tell him all about their mom and how she doesn’t need to be defended. But he doesn’t want to ruin one of the only good things Ty has in his life, so he lets it be. If she makes Ty happy and doesn’t hurt him, he supposed he can let him live in his small bubble for just a little longer. He’ll learn soon enough.

They remain quiet, neither speaking. There’s so much between them Anders swears he can hear it screaming. So much he wants to say to and tell his little brother. But none of it will really help Ty. None of it can really protect him when it can’t even protect himself. So they suffer silently together for a moment, just letting the burden of their lives crush their backs beneath it all.

Anders pulls himself up first; watches as Ty mirrors his movements. “I got a book…” he pulls it out from where it was still nestled under his arm. “If you want me to read you a story.”

Ty nods quickly, scooching a little closer to his brother. “What’s it about?”

Smiling down at him, Anders opens the worn cover to the first page. He can’t help but notice it’s been dog eared.

 _That asshole couldn’t even sit through one goddamn page,_ he thinks to himself before shaking his head, though he can’t help the smile that remains on his face. “Guess we’ll just have to read and find out.”

Little hands grab one of Anders’ gently as he opens the book in front of them. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Anders pulls his hands back, but Ty continues to hold them. “I fell and scraped them when I was walking to the store.”

Ty’s eyebrows knit together, as if he doesn’t really believe him. But he lets Anders’ hands drop and nods. “Be more careful, okay?”

As if he could have prevented the bottle from falling. As if he could have stopped his dad from asking for a bottle of alcohol in the first place, even though he shouldn’t even be allowed to buy it. As if he had the choice to say no, when if he so much as considers standing up for himself he ends up patching up a lot worse than a few small cuts on his hand.

As if he isn’t already so careful he feels he could scream with the amount of frustration he feels with always _being careful_. But he knows if he opens his mouth, let himself use his voice, he’ll never be able to stop screaming.

So he’ll choke until he swallows; the scream mangled and lost until it’s buried deep inside of him once more.

“I’ll try, okay?” he assures his little brother, a fake smile gracing his lips. “Here, move a little closer so you can see the words.”

Ty presses into Anders and looks down at the book expectantly.

“ _In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.”_ Anders started to read out loud, his voice quiet as Ty followed along with his eyes. “ _‘Whenever you feel like criticizing any one,’ he told me, ‘just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.’_ ”

The words make his bone ache, the way they did a year ago when he first read them. As he continues to read to his brother, his heart aches as he wonders in the back of his mind what it would have been like to have a father that gave advice instead of bruises?

He wishes he had stopped reading a little sooner, but he had gotten caught up in the book and by the time he hears the front door slam open and shut, it’s too late.

Twin pairs of footsteps come into the house and Anders cannot believe the shit luck he’s had tonight. Both of them at once? The world must really like having a good laugh at his expense.

Anders shuts the book, taking a deep breath as he looks at the bedroom door. He could hide in his little brother’s closet, but if he gets caught hiding it’ll make it ten times worse. And it’s already going to be bad enough as it is.

Ty’s door opens, their mother drunkenly stumbling it.

“Hey, baby,” she coos to her youngest son, before her eyes snap up to Anders’ frame, huddled against the headboard. “What are _you_ doing in here?”

“He was reading me a bedtime st-“

“I asked _your brother,_ not you, Ty,” she fixes Anders with a hateful look that makes him feel sick to his stomach.

“I came in to check on him before I went to bed,” he answers quiet but clear so she can understand his words. Not too fast so it jumbles together. Not too slow so he sounds condescending.

“Is he bothering you, Tyrone?”

“Mom, he came in to say go-“

“Get away from your brother, Anders,” Elizabet snarls down at his middle son.

“Where is he?!”  

Anders lets his eyes slip shut at the voice of his father shouting for him. It won’t stop anything from happening. But for one tiny moment he lets himself picture what he can remember from the book still open in his hands; about the character and his life. He tries to think about what his life might be like if he lived that one, instead.

“He’s in here!” his mother’s voice infiltrates the din and Anders opens his eyes, hands slowly shutting the book. Ty is shaking on the bed next to him as their father’s footsteps thunder down the hall. The perfect soundtrack to the cruel smirk on their mother’s lips.

“It’s gonna be okay. Just close your eyes and don’t listen, alright?” Anders whispers down at Ty. He gives his little brother a small smile that he doesn’t feel; thinks it might just tear the skin at the corners of his mouth. It drops as quickly as it came when he slips out of the bed. He doesn’t want to lure their dad any closer to Ty than he has to. He wishes he could meet him in the hall, but knows if he tries to pass his mom, she’ll grab him.

She looks like she wants to say something, but Joe is already barreling into the open door.

“Where the fuck have you been?” his dad shoves past his mom so he can get to his son. “I told you to go to the store, buy a bottle, come right fucking back.”

Anders flinches as Joe gets in his face. He reeks of vodka, so he must have found another source. He wonders if Randy made good on his threat of calling his dad. It doesn’t sound like it. But if he doesn’t tell the truth and his dad knows, he could get in a lot of trouble for lying. If he lies and Randy tells him later, it might even be worse. And telling the truth would just be plain dumb.

“I..,” Anders tries not to visibly squirm. “I ran into someone I know. On the way to the store,” it’s not exactly a lie. Not the truth, either. But he hopes that just the words will be enough to start the beating he knows is already coming, without prompting questions.

“So you think you can just waste my time?” Joe steps closer.

“I didn’t mean-”

The back of his dad’s hand collides with Anders’ mouth. The tiny, distressed noise Ty makes breaks through the fuzz in his ears. He wishes he didn’t have to see this.

He can taste blood from where his teeth bit down on his tongue. One of these days he hopes he just bites it off. Then maybe he can stop giving answers that will always be wrong, no matter what they are. Besides, when has speaking ever gotten him anywhere good?

“You didn’t mean to? If you didn’t mean to, you would have just kept walking and been home an hour ago!”

“You’re right,” Anders keeps his eyes downcast, his face still angled towards the floor from the force of the hit. He’s not even sure what he’s agreeing to. The fact that he deserves to be hit for his mistakes? But trying to placate his father is easier than defying him. 

His mother snorts and crosses her arms in his peripheral. He’s sure she’s rolling her eyes.  

“What the fuck took you so long, anyways?”

Anders swallows, mind racing to figure out a good excuse. His thoughts draw him to the weight of the book in his hand. “I had to borrow this book. For school,” he holds it up at a safe distance away from his dad. He doesn’t need to know what book it is, just to see there’s tangible proof of the lie he’s feeding him.

“You spent an hour borrowing a book?” his dad sneers and takes a step forward. He’s close; getting too close. Anders forces himself not to succumb to the desire to take two steps back.

“I had to go to their house to get-”

He can’t help but yelp when his dad yanks him by the hair and pulls his head up. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

“I had to get it from their house!” Anders stares into his father’s eyes. They’re glassy, dark, rage deeper than the ocean. Another rough slap is delivered to his face and Anders crumples to the floor when his dad lets him go.

“If you think it’s okay to break the rules and take your sweet time,” Joe leans down, vodka breath ghosting over Anders’ face, “then you won’t mind me taking this and taking my sweet time giving it back.” Large hands snatch the book out of Anders’ grip.

“I need that back!” Anders scrambles up quickly as his father starts to leave the room. “It’s not mine, I borrowed it! I have to return it!”

Everything in his body is screaming at him to sit back down and shut the fuck up, but he can’t stop himself as he hurtles after his dad, arm reaching out to try and grab the book. “Give it back!”

His dad wheels around and it’s too late for Anders to get out of his way. The book collides with the side of his head and sends him sprawling to the ground in front of his mother’s feet. He barely registers the way she backs away from him as if he were some leper and not her own son.

His head hurts. He can hear Ty crying.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” his dad shouts down at him.

Anders stares at the wall across from him. There’s a small crack near the floor and he wonders what it would be like to be able to just slip through it; to be able to hide behind the walls that cage him in.

“ _No one_ ,” he answers, his chest feeling so full and so empty at the same time. How can he possibly be filled with so much anger and sadness and frustration and at the same time, be so undeniably, irrevocably empty?

“That’s right,” his dad sneers and leaves the room, the book Mitchell had trusted Anders with in his hands. He hears his mother snarl something at him as she steps around him. But he doesn’t hear it.

He lets his eyes slip shut.

Trick number three.

 _Let it all go numb_.

 


	4. Your Pages Are Torn (But My Words Still Mean The Same)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh buddy are we sorry this took so long!  
> lucy's been busy getting ready to take an exam and i've been a bit sick lately. (not to mention our timezone differences...) it's been really hard to get together and write this out. 
> 
> but here it is! 
> 
> also, just wanted to let you all know, the abuse that happens in this chapter is a lot more graphic than the chapters previous to this. everything is in italics and if you would like to completely skip over the scene:  
> you can stop here _Oh shit. Mistake number three._ and pick up here _"Anders pulls the tattered remains of what Mitchell can only assume is his copy of The Great Gatsby from his bag"_ and it will still explain to you what happened, without the graphic content. 
> 
> so things aren't exactly looking up yet, but i promise they will. there's some good things coming anders' way soon. and the next chapter will definitely be far lighter than this one. we promise it's not all sad angst! and it will get better eventually! give mitchell some time. he'll figure this one out!

Anders feels his mother step around his body, listening to her footsteps reverberate through the floor. She moves to the bed, grabbing the blankets to tuck her youngest son back in. He can hear the sound of the bed denting as she sits down and the very faint whisper of words. He can’t make out what she’s saying, just the ghost of words that used to be whispered to him late at night to keep him calm when the monster prowled the halls late at night. She slides off the bed, places a kiss on Ty’s head, tucking him back in just the way she used to do for Anders when he was younger.

Their mom steps back around him, glancing down at her son. “I don’t want you staying in here with Tyrone. Get up and go to your own room.”

He’s unsure if it’s fortune or just the desire not to look at Anders anymore that has Elizabet walking out of the bedroom and leaving him where he’s still lying on the floor. It takes a minute to push himself to move and pick himself up. He feels exhausted, but the tiny sniffle behind him reminds him his job as caretaker isn’t over just yet.

“I’m okay,” he turns around, facing his little brother. “Didn’t hurt too bad.”

“Are you sure?” a tiny hand seeks out Anders in the dark.

“I’m sure. Sorry about making you watch that,” Anders shies away from the hand and tucks his own into his pockets. He knows Ty means well, he does. But he doesn’t know how many more hands he can cope with touching him today.

“S-Sorry.”

He feels a tiny pang of guilt as Ty retracts his hand slowly, clear rejection on his face illuminated by the light from the hallway. “Get some sleep, alright? Maybe we’ll have pancakes for breakfast if mom and Joe leave early.” 

“Really?” Ty can’t help but smile at the thought of pancakes, his mind already easing the dismissal away.

Anders is sure there’s still a box of mix in the cupboard. And if not, he can run down to the store to pick up some.

“Yeah, really. Just get some sleep.”

“Okay. G’Night,” Ty scooches down into the covers and watches his big brother leave.

“Anders?”

“Hmm?” Anders turns at the doorway, his hand hovering near the knob.

“Sorry ‘bout your book.”

Anders shrugs at him. “It probably wasn’t that good anyways.” He doesn’t wait for Ty to reply as he eases the door shut behind him.

He avoids the creaky floorboards on the way back to his bedroom and closes the door as quiet as he can. The lightbulb is mercifully back in place, but he doesn’t dare switch it on in case their dad is still up and around. Mike still isn’t home so at least he’s got the room to himself for a minute.

His shoulders ache as he lowers himself to the bed. The sting in his hands that he had been ignoring starts to bubble to the surface. His body feels heavy. His whole being feels so weighted down. How was he supposed to explain to Mitchell that he had fucked up and broken his trust in him already?

He needed to get the book back. Anders tugs at the sleeves, the reminder that Mitchell gave him this shirt, too, starts spurring his mind into formulating a plan. He’ll have to wait until everyone is asleep before he can put it into action, but if he’s careful enough, he thinks he can pull it off.

It’ll be risky, but he’d rather succeed and keep Mitchell’s faith, than have to face that look of disappointment when he tells him that he failed him.

Anders has failed enough people in his life. He’s failed everyone in his life, in fact. And he just can’t let himself fail Mitchell. He _won’t_ fail him, too. 

Anders counts the sound of doors shutting, one by one. First is his mother’s, slammed shut to be followed by her stony silence. Second is his own bedroom as Mike lets himself in, smelling like the cheap perfume and cigarette smoke. Anders breathes steady; in, out. Mike leaves him alone. The third door is his father’s, angry words on his lips as he stubs a toe fading away when the door slams behind him.

He waits. Waits another hour, listening to the sound of Mike’s light snore. His ears pick up every sound in the house, making sure that everyone is asleep. Feet swing quietly over the bed, landing softly on the floor. The book he picked out, nearly identical in size, shape, and color, sits heavy on his night stand. It feels even heavier in his hand as he cradles it to his chest. Tiny feet tiptoe to the door, almost completely silent in their perfected skill.

It mercifully doesn’t creak as he eases it open, leaving it cracked for when he comes back. He stands outside of his dad’s room, shifting a little before summoning the courage he needs. This is such a stupid idea. But he has to get Mitchell’s book back.

He opens the door very slowly, _so painfully slow_ , aware of every tiny little noise it makes in the dark. Just enough for him to slip his tiny body inside, no more than that. It’s dark in the bedroom, but Anders doesn’t need a light to navigate it. He knows his old bedroom by heart. Knows his dresser is to the left, the third drawer still jammed shut. Knows the floorboards in the middle of the room always groan under any weight, so he always avoids them. He’s almost positive his little toy chest is still inside the closet, not that he’s ever been brave enough to look.

His dad snores loudly from the bed. Anders is sure that he can make out the book on the nightstand. It looks about right. And it’s not like his dad does a hell of a lot of reading. He creeps forward, silent as he can possibly be.

He might actually be able to pull this off.

But he forgot nothing ever works out for him.

He doesn’t feel the loose floorboard until he’s already tripping over it and catching himself noisily on the hard floor, the cover of the book slamming against the wood beneath him.   

His heart stops, his blood turning icy. His dad grunts in his sleep and Anders is up before he has the chance to fully wake up. He has to leave. Has to get out. If he can just make it back to his bedroom he’ll probably be okay.

His hand reaches for the door just as a hand grabs him by the collar of his shirt.

Anders groans as he’s yanked backwards, the collar tugging on the still sore bruises from being choked.

 

* * *

 

_Anders_

Mitchell lets the name roll about in his mind as his fingers follow the motion, tightening and curling around the cigarette he’s trying to form. It’s already slipped from his grip twice. He forces himself to concentrate on the task at hand, trying to ignore the life that’s vibrating all around him as he pushes his way through the throngs of people. The bag of books slips from the crook of his elbow, and he hikes it back up, letting out a sigh of relief as he makes it through the crowd and onto a quieter road.

As much as he hates going to the market, it’s always so busy and thriving and _tempting,_ he can’t deny the excitement of finding old classics to fill his bookshelf with. He wonders what Anders will think of the ones he bought today, a small smile tilting his lips as he remembers how he’d to practically force himself away from the stall with books about the war. He thinks about the puzzled look on Anders face, the way his brow had creased in a frown. He’s been alone for so long he’s almost forgotten that he’s supposed to act like a normal 24 year old.

 _Doing a great job so far Mitch, with your creepy job and your history book obsession._  

Snorting to himself, he finally lights the cigarette, crossing the street so he can cut across the park. At least Anders doesn’t know about his job yet.

A flash of blond hair across the green catches his attention, and he whirls round, dropping the cigarette in his haste.

_Not every person with blond hair is going to be Anders, Mitchell. Get a grip._

He curses to himself, crushing the remains of his smoke under his boot as he turns sharply and storms off. He tries to ignore the nagging voice in his brain that’s pointing out it’s the 4th time today he’s done that.

_Why would Anders even be here?_

He looks around himself, subtler this time, takes in the teens lounging by the river, the group of lads kicking a ball about, the parents with their children over by the swings. Memories of bruises and handprints drift across Mitchell’s mind as he realises with an ache in his chest that Anders has probably never been here; probably never had friends to play with or parents to take him out to do nice things.

Sighing, he reaches the edge of the park, hesitating at the gate to glance back at the echoes of laughter meandering across the ripples in the water. _Maybe he could bring Anders here._ The thought stays with him as he finally reaches his street, fingers instinctively closing around the shamrock keyring in his pocket.

Joyce and Beckett shift in his bag as he reaches up to unlock the door; Anders’ reminder of his heritage the day before clearly reflected in the days purchases. It had been a while since he’d thought of his homeland, but he was finding that the memories weren’t as painful now as they used to be, more a soft reminder of a time long gone by.

The silence that greets him when he enters however only serves as a reminder of how lonely his life truly has become. It seems greater somehow, amplified without the presence of another person. Mitchell hadn’t realised until he went to bed last night how Anders is the first person to have ever been inside his home. Any of his homes.

It’s definitely made him question some of his furniture choices, he can say that much.

He whistles to himself quietly as the kettle boils, leaning back on the counter and staring at the wall in front of him. He almost wishes he was working today; it would give him something to do at least. Boredom had become his friend over the years, decades slipping by without significance. Vampires of his kind are rare, ones who are strong and compassionate enough to turn away from the call of thirst. They’re also even less willing to trust. He’s never met anyone he could truly call a friend, someone who might come to understand him, might take the time to work out his quirks and idiosyncrasies. And he sees that in Anders too. Sees how wary Anders is of him, how observant and on alert he is constantly. Can see that no one’s ever taken the time to try and understand him either, to try and be his friend.

He thinks maybe that’s why he feels so compelled to help him. To be his friend. To save him, when there was no one there to save himself. He wishes more than anything that he could just snatch him up and take him away from this place, away from his awful family so that they could never hurt him again. The screech of the boiling kettle pierces the shell of wishful thinking.

_It isn’t 1899 anymore. Kids don't just vanish without someone looking for them. Even kids like Anders._

He frowns when a timid knock on the door has him freezing with a teabag in one hand and a mug in the other. _Who would knock on his door?_

No one knows where he lives. No one; except…

And then it hits him, that earthy smell of Anders blood, his enhanced senses picking up on the low throb of his pulse, the laboured quality of his breathing, the tangy hint of copper.

Mitchell fumbles with the mug, once again telling himself to get a grip, _you’re a 100 year old vampire not some clumsy teenager,_ before rushing over to the door. He freezes with his hand on the door knob, forcing himself to take a couple of deep calming breaths, leaning forward to rest his head on the cold wood of the door when all that does is make him pick up on the scent of fear and hesitation thumping through the boys veins.

_Play it cool, Mitchell, just play it cool._

 

* * *

 

Anders stands outside of Mitchell’s door. It took a minute or two for him to remember his way back, but he eventually found his way to the ugly, yellow front door of the little brick house.

He’d managed to slip past the current group of boys who enjoyed using him as a punching bag and if he made this short, he could be home to Ty before his parents even knew he was missing.

But he isn’t exactly speeding anything along as he paces outside the door for a moment, trying to figure out what he wants to say; if he should say anything at all. Maybe he should just leave. 

But his conscience weighs heavy on him and he’d rather get this over quick, like a bandaid. If Mitchell’s going to yell and shout, he’d rather just get it done now. Anders knows he deserves it. He just hopes Mitchell doesn’t expect him to pay for the book. He won’t have enough money for that for that for a while, even if he saves the meager change his parents give him for lunch.

He realises he’s been standing outside the door for a good five minutes before he finally brings his hand up to knock. The sound thuds through his body, feeding his anxiety.

He waits.

The door remains closed and Anders thinks maybe he should knock again, but he doesn’t want to irritate Mitchell when he’s about to make him angry.

It feels like an eternity passes before Anders decides Mitchell must not be home. He feels both relieved and disappointed as he starts walking away from his front door.

The sound of a lock clicking and a door being pulled open makes him freeze, his shoulders pulling up tight like he’s been caught doing something bad.

Anders takes a second to breathe before he turns back around.

Maybe he should think it strange that he finds the calm look on Mitchell’s face oddly comforting. He doesn’t really know him, but so far the man hasn’t given him any reason to be afraid of him. But still, the fear of being hated tastes metallic on his tongue, and he tries to swallow around the nerves bundling in his throat. If he just plays it cool, maybe Mitchell won’t be so mad at him when he tells him about his book.

“Hey, asshole. Took you long enough.”

 

* * *

 

Mitchell pulls the door open, arranging his features in what he hopes is a calm expression. He realises that had he waited any longer Anders probably would have left, so he lets out a sigh of relief as the ever present creak of the door alerts Anders to his presence. A sigh that gets stuck in his throat when the boy turns back to face him.

Anders’ comment barely even registers over the red haze that flares in his mind when he catches sight of the new bruises covering the boys face and neck. He exhales loudly, mind going blank as he stands frozen in the doorway.

He wonders if every time he sees Anders it’ll be like this.

His eyes widen as they roam over the small frame, lingering on the way he seems to favour his left side.

“Anders, wha- ”

“Aren’t you gonna invite me in?” The scowl that passes over Anders’ face rivals Mitchell’s own, famed glare. Still mildly shocked, both by the sight of Anders face and the tone with which he just spoke, he doesn’t say anything, just steps back, opening the door wider and gesturing Anders inside.

He brushes past, careful to avoid actually touching him but close enough that Mitchell can see the way he flinches at the almost-contact.

Mitchell exhales wearily, questions tumbling over themselves in his mind as he follows Anders through the hall and into the lounge. He’s wearing another oversized, worn looking shirt,and it crosses Mitchell’s mind that at least one of his siblings must be older. It would make sense, his clothes must be mostly hand-me-downs.

_I wonder how many bruises it’s hiding this time._

The thought is painful in his mind, and he doesn't know if the thought of Anders having an older brother relieves him in some way, to know that there aren’t more kids even younger than Anders getting abused; or if it angers him. Whoever this older brother is, he’s doing a real shitty job of looking after Anders. His fists clench at his side as he leans towards the latter, and he has to force himself to remember that he knows nothing about this kids family or their situation, beyond the obvious.

Anders hovers near the sofa, as if waiting for permission to sit down. With a pang in his chest Mitchell realises that he probably is.

“Here, why don’t you sit down and I’ll get you a drink?”

“No!” The shout from the boy has Mitchell raising an eyebrow, and Anders flushes slightly as his gaze drops down to the hands that are now curled in front of him. “No I… I’m fine thanks. I’m not thirsty.”

“Okay,” Mitchell frowns but doesn’t press it, watching as Anders shrugs off his backpack and finally takes a seat. The way he winces as he does so causes even more alarms to go off in Mitchell’s head.

_What the fuck had happened?_

He could still smell a hint of copper curling through the thirst in his throat and he realises that he must still be bleeding somewhere. Concern boils molten in his blood. He knew Anders had been in a bad way when he’d left last night but this…

Mitchell shakes his head.

_I never should have let him leave._

The bruises on the boys face were definitely fresh, blossoming purple overlaying the existing fading blue of the day before. His eyes were rimmed in red, and a hand was fisted in the front of his shirt, rubbing gently over his right side. It was that which was causing Mitchell concern, the way he was hunched over, the way his eyes were shooting about the room and kept going back to the doorway, as if he was waiting for something bad to come charging through.

Mitchell moves forward, dropping to sit on the coffee table across from the boy, mindful of the selection of used mugs littering the surface. He sits in such a way that his body blocks the door, hoping it might help him relax.

It doesn’t.

Shifting to the side, noting the slight ease in tension in the boy when he can see the door again, he goes for a direct approach.

“Do you wanna tell me what happened?” 

_Big mistake._

Blue eyes snap up to meet Mitchell’s own.

“Nothing happened!” Anders snarls, the venom behind the words shocking Mitchell.

He realises that the Anders  in front of him isn’t the same boy he coaxed out from under his desk the day before. This one is tense and angry and on the defensive, and Mitchell realises that he’s once again treading in murky water as his mind races to try and figure out what he can do to help.

“I’m fine.” Anders practically spits the words at him, shifting on the couch and staring down at his hands. The one that’s not pressed against his side is now digging into his leg, and Mitchell instinctively reaches out to grasp it and pull it away.

“Hey, don’t do that you- ”

“Get _off_ me!” Anders yanks his hand away the moment Mitchell’s fingers brush his.

_Mistake number two._

He wonders if all the progress he made the last time Anders was here was for nought.

 _Yesterday,_ his mind supplies up, _was it really only yesterday that they stood in this room talking about literature?_

Blue eyes pinch shut as he grimaces from the strain the quick motions put on his unknown injury. The price of Mitchell’s carelessness is so clear, it almost hurts him physically to see Anders’ usually stoic face so twisted in such a visible display of pain. Mitchell curses himself, noticing for the first time the blood seeping through the bandages he’d so carefully wrapped the boys hand in.

He takes in the now trembling form in front of him, and the well of despair he feels only deepens.

_He obviously came here for a reason._

With that thought in mind Mitchell eases himself off the table and gently settles on the couch next to Anders, making sure to keep a fair distance between them. Whether he came here because he wanted to talk, or because he wanted to feel safe, Mitchell realises it doesn't matter. Realises that if he wants to break through Anders walls he can’t push, can’t let the bricks go crumbling inside of him. Instead he needs to dismantle them, piece by piece, and if that means taking the time to figure out how to do so and getting his head bitten off a few times in the process then so be it.

Anders side-eyes him as he relocates.

“What are you doing?” he asks, the bite in his tone still present but not as sharp this time, softened with an edge of curiosity.

“Figured if you just came here to hang out we could watch some TV,” Mitchell shrugs, daring Anders to contradict him as he grabs the remote. He remembers how the day before when he’d treated Anders like he was just any old mate he’d managed to draw a conversation out of him; hopes maybe he can do the same now.

“I… Yeah well I… I was in the neighbourhood, that’s all,” Anders says, avoiding eye contact. Mitchell’s been around long enough to know when he’s being lied too but he keeps quiet, figures if Anders wants to tell him he will eventually.

“You have a really old TV, you know,” Anders blurts out when the silence seems to stretch too long. Mitchell raises an eyebrow at him and lets out a little scoff, but still says nothing as he starts surfing the channels.

Anders rolls his eyes discreetly. “Well you do,” he mutters quietly.

Mitchell settles on some old film that’s playing, leaning back further into the couch and propping his feet on the table in front of him. It’s a Laurel and Hardy, one of his favourites, but he barely pays attention as he waits, watching Anders from the corner of his eye. Eventually, he uncurls a little, leaning into the armrest, the tension leaving his small frame somewhat.

He lets out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding, quickly disguising it as a cough when Anders glances his way. _Smooth Mitch._

When the low buzz of the TV isn’t enough to suppress the silence surrounding them anymore, Mitchell glances over at Anders again, watches his face scrunch in pain as he moves his hand over his side. Mitchell swallows heavily, knows something really must be wrong but so unsure of what he can do or say that’ll get Anders to open up.

He realises that Anders gaze has also drifted from the TV to settle back on the giant bookcase, and Mitchell almost wants to slap himself for his stupidity. Anders had been so animated the day before when they’d been talking about the books, he doesn’t understand why he hasn’t thought to mention it again.

“Hey, kiddo,” he calls softly, not wanting to startle him, “did you start reading the book yet? How are you finding it?”

He watches the blood drain from Anders face, realisation dawning on him too late that that was definitely not the best thing to say.

_Oh shit._

_Mistake number three._

 

* * *

 

 

“Did you start reading the book yet?”

The rest of Mitchell’s sentence is drowned out by the sound of his blood pumping too quickly, his heart hammering in his ears. It repeats in his head; _did you start reading the book yet?_

_Did you start reading the book?_

**_The book._ **

Anders feels the anxiety claw up his through his stomach and into his throat, his mouth going dry at the thought of telling Mitchell what happened.

_“What the fuck do you think you’re doing in here?” his dad yanks him backwards before shoving him to the floor, hard and fast. Anders’ wrists protest the violent landing, but he thinks he might have avoided spraining them. He hisses at the pain of his cuts reopening under the meticulous bandages Mitchell had put on him._

_For a second he feels guilty for making Mitchell go through all the trouble to patch him up, just to ruin his hard work. But his mind becomes too occupied with other things._

As if remembering, too, his hands give a little sting at the fresh memory. Anders’ eyes rapidly dart around the room, assessing the smallest places for him to hide and the shortest way to exit in the event Mitchell gets violent when he’s angry.

_“I need the book back, Dad! It’s not mine!” Anders yelps when a foot slams harshly in the middle of his back._

_“I could give two shits about who the book belongs to,” his dad snarls down at him, his foot grinding into his skin and bones. “And I’ll give it back to you when I damn well please.”_

Fingers tug at his jeans as his body starts to break out in a cold sweat, the words still racing around his mind on repeat, like someone keeps rewinding the tape over and over. It does nothing to hold the dam back from the night before. Everything starts to flood over to the soundtrack of Mitchell’s voice; **_did you start reading the book yet?_**

_“And with the way you act, I might keep the damn thing forever,” the foot lifts from his back._

_Anders can breathe now that his chest isn’t being crushed under the weight of his father’s temper. Though the pressure of everything else in his life still constricts tight around his lungs, keeping him starving for air. He’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to breathe properly, again. Or if he even had to begin with. Sometimes he thinks this must be what drowning feels like._

“I…” he feels the stomach acid burning low in his gut. He has to tell him or Mitchell will just get even angrier he’s taking so long to spit it out. And yet it’s so hard to make the words rise from his throat half as fast as he feels the bile does. He can’t breathe too deeply, so he settles on a stuttered breath. He hopes beyond hope that Mitchell isn’t violent like his dad or Mike. That he’s just going to yell at him and tell him to get out. He knows he definitely deserves it.

“I lost it…” 

_The weight doesn’t return, so he thinks it’s probably safe to get up and out of the line of fire. It must be the exhaustion of the day that has Anders making the rookie mistakes of disregarding trick number four; don’t move until you’re given permission to leave or kicked out._

_He pushes himself to his knees, twisting to the left to stand up. His back is prone to his father and he realizes it far too late to deflect the blow he should have known was coming. His dad kicks him hard in the right side of his back, making him cry out in pain. It radiates through his core and into his legs and arms, spreading through all the old and new bruises like wildfire._

_He’s given no mercy or time to recover as the foot shoves him back down onto the floor. Anders’ chin knocks against wood, his teeth clattering loudly as his jaw starts to throb. At least he managed not to bite his tongue this time._

_“Where do you think you’re going? I haven’t taught you your lesson yet.”_

“You lost it?” Mitchell tries to keep his voice level, questioning, not accusing.Anders is like a ticking bomb, panic attack just waiting to explode.

“I didn’t mean to!” Anders hastily responds, his voice cracking as if he’s begging Mitchell to believe him. As if he even needs to; Mitchell doesn’t care about the book. And even with hardly any information given, he realises with a sickening churn of his stomach what must have happened to Anders and why.

_The foot is removed but Anders lies still, fear of further damage to his kidney keeping him from fighting back._

_A hand darts out and hauls him up, throwing him to the bed. The movement is strong and fierce like a wave overtaking him and leaves him dizzy and confused as he hits the mattress with resounding protest of the springs. His brain has time to idly wonder if they’ve taken as much abuse as he has._

“Anders it’s- ”

“I was just trying to read a little bit to my brother before he went to sleep,” Anders hurriedly explains, his voice growing more urgent as his fear starts to take over him. Mitchell knows that any second now the clocks going to run out. He wants to stop it so bad, but he doesn’t know what to do. This isn’t like yesterday at the store, where he just gave in and curled up, ready to let whatever was going to happen to him happen.  

And it’s certainly not as easy as forking over some cash in exchange for forgiveness. If he could buy Anders’ peace and calm, he’d gladly give all he had.

“He doesn’t know how to read that well for his age and no one else reads to him. I didn’t mean for it to get taken, I swear!”

_The clattering of a belt buckle makes Anders’ blood run ice cold. He feels the crack of the leather belt against his back before he hears it, though he knows the sound well enough by heart. The blows come wild and fast, sobriety giving his father a stronger arm, not to mention a great deal better aim._

_Anders screams from the agony, the belt whipping him hard over the right kidney where he’s already been massively injured. His back protests and his legs take their last stand valiantly before he collapses to the mattress. Tears well in his eyes and he wishes they wouldn’t. He knows they spur his father on, always yelling at him that tears make him look like a weak, little girl._

_“You think you can come in here, take whatever you want?”_

_“No!” Anders grips at the blanket forcing his mind to focus on anything but the rapidly growing heat of his back, the aching bruises beginning to form already._

_His only solace is that the thick material of the shirt Mitchell lent him keeps the bitter bite of the belt from cutting his skin open._

_It’s almost surreal to think about him at the moment, but that’s twice in one night Mitchell has saved him by sparing him a small amount of the cruelty he just can’t seem to avoid._

“Wait it was taken from you?” Mitchell can’t keep the disbelief out of his voice. Who the hell would take a book from a child who was trying to teach their little brother to read? He internally groans at the way Anders visibly flinches from his interruption.

_“Clearly you do!”_

_Anders knows it’s futile to argue. He’s not going to beg for forgiveness, and he’s not going to beg him to stop either. He knows it would be easier if he did, but the only shred left of his pride held on, stubborn to allow him this one bit of dignity. Instead he does his best to keep himself from thrashing too much. Moving targets only make his dad angrier._

_The next few lashes have Anders groaning into vodka soaked blankets, his mind hazy from the pain. He hopes for it to stop soon, each strike making it increasingly hard to keep control of his bladder. His consciousness isn’t faring well, either, and he fights hard to avoid losing both. Maybe begging might be better than pissing himself on his dad’s bed. He might just strangle him with the belt right then and there._

_Anders is sure no one would even notice if he died._

_When his father finally gets sick of lashing out at him with belt and words, he lets it clatter to the floor. He takes a second to catch his breath._

“I’m sorry. I tried to get it back…”

_Anders tries to breathe, tries to blink away the fog and tears. His hands are starting to bleed through the bandages and he’s lucky enough to catch it before he gets any on the sheets. He shoves the sleeves over his hands as quickly as he can, but it’s hard for him to move his limbs the way he wants to. Some of the blows got his shoulders and the back of his arms._

_A hand threads into his hair and yanks him hard off the bed and back onto the floor. It’s only a trace of a thought, but his pants feel dry and he’s grateful for that. His dad is yelling something, but it doesn’t break through to him. Everything sounds like he’s underwater._

_It’s the sight of the book in his father’s hands that has him snapping back to reality._

_“Wait!”_

_The blow to his face is not unexpected, but he hadn’t braced for it at all. It knocks him backwards, but he does his best to scramble back upright despite his whole body giving protest._

“I really did,” Anders’ voice breaks and he turns away from Mitchell to where his backpack is resting on the coffee table. He reaches slowly for it, his muscles groaning under the strain. Mitchell wants to protest, but finds the words stuck around the lump forming in his throat.The zipper sounds so loud to Mitchell, but it’s the quickening of Anders’ heart that he hears the most. He feels adrift, thrown up on the shore at a complete loss of where to go next.

_“You want this goddamn book back so bad, here. Take it,” his dad sneers, his hands starting to pull at the book. Anders stares in horror, listening to the deafening rip of the cover being torn from the pages. How was it possible that this sounded louder to him than his own screaming?_

_He doesn’t stop there; tears into the pages like a hungry shark with an injured seal. Paper drifts to the ground, full pages, pieces of pages, words forever lost now as they continue to be torn to oblivion. The rest of the book falls to the floor, his father already bored with his unforgiving game._

_“Clean this shit up.”_

_His dad kicks it towards him before stepping around him and leaving the bedroom. Whether to go out for a smoke, get a drink, or assure everyone, who are no doubt awake now, that Anders deserved what he got, he doesn’t care._

_All he cares about is the ruin in front of him. A story gone and lost forever. There were others copies out there, sure, but none identical to this one. All the times Mitchell had picked it up and thumbed through it. The memories he embedded in the pages, just as the pages had embedded in his mind. It was all gone._

_And it was all his fault._

_His hands shake as he picks up the torn pages, blood soaking into some of the paper. He bites his lip, sadness he promised himself never to feel bubbling up into his throat. Not only had he let Mitchell down, he had failed himself as well. And not for the first time._

_The tears fall from his eyes before he can stop them, steady and wet. He tries to stop, but they keep coming. Maybe he could fill an ocean with them and sail away. If he doesn’t drown in them first._

_If Anders life was a book, he’s sure that it would look exactly like the ruined novel in front of him. Strewn across the floor in little pieces, tainted with blood, and never quite able to be fully pieced back together again._

“I…” Anders pulls the tattered remains of what Mitchell can only assume is his copy of _The Great Gatsby_ from his bag, cradling it to his chest. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t be mad. I tried to get it back from my dad and he got really angry because I wasn’t supposed to be in his room and then he ripped up the book and I couldn’t stop him, I was too weak. I couldn’t make him stop and now it’s ruined and I don’t have the money to buy you another copy right now, but if I save my lunch money for the next few weeks I think I could probably buy you a used-”

“Anders…” Mitchell barely even whispers the word, forces it out laced with the pain and compassion he feels for the little boy in front of him.

“Copy. And I’ll do extra chores and I did start reading the book, my brother really liked it and I think it’s a really good book and-”

“Anders!” Mitchell shouts before he realises what he’s doing. He can barely keep up with all the words being jumbled together, just wants him to stop, wants him to stop apologising and let Mitchell do so instead.

“I’m sorry! Don’t hit me…”

Anders holds his hands in front of his face, groaning from the pain washing over his body as he moves. Small pieces of paper flutter to the floor and Mitchell stares at the sight in front of him. His blood boils with anger that someone could inflict this much trauma and damage on a child, but above that, he feels _guilty_ , as if he, himself, tore the book Anders is using as a buffer between them.

His fingers reach out, gently prying the ruined pages from Anders’ hands.

“Shh, it’s okay. I’m not mad at you, Anders,” he whispers, afraid that anything louder will send the kid spiraling even deeper.

“Please don’t hit me.”

 

* * *

 

 

" _Please don’t hit me.”_

It’s amazing how four little words can change a person’s entire outlook of the world. For a century, Mitchell had believed that monsters were restricted to the shadows, restricted to a world that only those who were a part of it were aware of. 

Funny how four simple words can change that.

“Anders,” he keeps his voice as soft as possible, the urge to reach out and draw the boys hands away from his face and take them in his own rivalling that of his blood lust. Not that the anger hasn’t been drowning that out lately anyways. “It’s alright, I’m not going to hurt you.”

He waits patiently, waits for the trembling to ease ever so slightly. He sits still as stone, wants Anders to come to the realisation on his own that a blow is never going to land.

“I would never hurt you,” he adds quietly, and the anguish must have been evident in his tone because Anders slowly lowers his hands away from his face.

He doesn't look convinced though. Sniffing, he wipes his face on his hands as he looks away, mumbling under his breath.

“That’s what Mike used to say.”

Mitchell knows that if it wasn’t for his vampiric hearing he wouldn’t have even caught that.

“Mike? Who’s Mike?”

The panic that reappears in Anders’ eyes makes it clear that he didn’t think Mitchell would hear that either. 

“Is that one of your brothers?”

“He’s... It’s not… He,” Anders fumbles over his words, breath coming in short gasps as he starts curling in on himself on the sofa again. A sharp cry of pain breaks through as he hunches up over his side again, Mitchell realising with alarm that his line of questioning had caused Anders to hurt himself. Again.

“Shh, it’s okay, you don’t have to tell me about it. Forget I mentioned it,” he soothes, reaching over to lay a hand ever so gently on Anders’ back. He knows that Anders is likely to just flinch away again but he doesn’t know what else to do. He needs Anders to understand that he doesn’t want to hurt him, he just wants to comfort him. He needs Anders to understand what comfort is.

A muffled whimper has him snatching his hand back immediately though, apologies brewing in his throat, when he hears Anders speak again. This time though, even he doesn't catch it, so distorted are the words from where they’re being spoken into damaged hands.

Mitchell hesitates, unsure whether to ask Anders to repeat himself or not. He wants to stop asking him questions, wants him to just feel safe and secure. 

“I said leave it.” Anders saves him from that decision, raising his head to wipe away the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. “It’s nice; your hands are cold.”

He ducks his head again, clearly embarrassed about having actually asked Mitchell for help. To Mitchell it’s a revelation. He slowly places his hand back on Anders’ shoulder, letting the pleased sigh he makes at the contact flood through his system.

“Can you put it lower?” he asks in a sheepish voice, as if he’s afraid to ask for more. As if he thinks the tiny touch is way more than he deserves. “Yeah, there,” Anders twitches slightly as Mitchell moves his hand to rest it on his lower back, eyes falling shut as he lets the cold waves radiating from Mitchell’s hand soothe the aching bruises.

It’s odd to take comfort from the touch of a hand. It’s been so long since the last time someone wanted to put their hands on him and mean it as a way to make him feel better and not worse. It makes Anders’ skin hot, his mind still battling to pull away from the hand. He forces the thoughts to a dull whisper in the back of his mind, trying to just enjoy the vague relief Mitchell’s hand is offering.

Mitchell itches to know exactly what happened. He knows Anders has skated over the details, and is certain he’s more injured than he’s letting on. A frown forms on his face as he considers where exactly his hand is. Right over his…

Realisation dawns on him, his mouth falling open, shutting it again with a snap. He knows that if he asks Anders one more question about what happened he’s going to bolt.

He can’t just leave it though.

“Anders, are you… I mean, have you-”

Anders looks up at him scornfully. “Spit it out would you.”

This time Mitchell just lets the jab wash over him. He’s starting to understand how Anders uses his words as a defence mechanism. _It makes sense,_ he thinks. _His voice is probably all he has of his own._ Instead he focuses on Anders’ face, noticing then how exhausted he looks. He’s sagging against the side of the sofa, shattered by the battle he’s obviously been having with his emotions. It can’t have been more than half an hour since he walked in the door, Mitchell realises.

“Look while you work out whatever it is you want to say next I’m going to go to the bathroom,” Anders says with a huff, inching carefully off the sofa and then limping towards the staircase.

Jumping up after him, hoping beyond hope that he’s wrong about what he just thought, Mitchell moves to offer him a hand. He can see how Anders is struggling, but his outstretched hand is shot down with just a glare, anger flashing behind blue.

“I don’t need your help!” Anders yells, and Mitchell quickly shoves his hand back in his pocket.

“Oh yeah? ‘Cos it looks to me like you do,” he can’t help shooting back, eyebrows raised and frustration building. He keeps his voice calm, level. Quiet. But it doesn't take away the sting of the accusation.

It’s like watching a balloon deflate, the fight draining out of Anders as quickly as it seemed to arrive.

“I’m sorry,” he says, shuffling his feet. “Just, please. Let me do this on my own. Don’t take that from me, too.”

He looks down at the defeated boy in front of him, in his oversized shirt and worn shoes, bruises splashed about for everyone to see. His dignity evidently one of the only things he has left to himself.

And just like that, Mitchell deflates too.

“Okay, fine. You can do it on your own then. But you’ll have to excuse me walking slowly behind you. Smokers lungs, you know?” he winks at Anders, patting his chest, trying to dispel the dark cloud that had suddenly appeared in the room. He waits patiently for him to begin climbing the staircase.

Anders’ isn’t stupid. He’s hardly forgotten the way Mitchell had charged up the stairs the day before. But something inside of him stops him from pointing that out, diffuses the acidic words that were poised to be spilled. He thinks maybe it’s the part of him that didn’t tell Mitchell to get off him only moments before, that tiny part of him that thinks maybe it is okay to ask for help every now and then.

Trying to ignore the blaring of his dad’s voice in his head that’s yelling at him for being weak, he rolls his eyes at Mitchell then turns away, meekly taking the first step.

“Whatever, asshole.”

 

* * *

 

 

The stairs are torture at best.

The way they force his body to move tugs on his injured back and presses on his swollen bladder. He’d done his best all day to avoid liquids and trying to put off the inevitable. He wanted to make it home before he had to use the bathroom; was hoping he could hop in the shower and let the warm water help soothe his back.

Mitchell’s footsteps are slow and sure behind him. It irritates him, but Anders can’t help but find a small sense of comfort in knowing that at least if he misses a step, someone will be there to catch him before he falls down all of the stairs.

Even so, he calculates each footstep. He doesn’t want to put Mitchell in the situation of needing to catch him if he falls.

“Second door on the right,” Mitchell points to the bathroom door. Anders doesn’t need to be reminded which one it is, but he doesn’t say anything. Just in case he wasn’t supposed to be in there last night. It wouldn’t do good to make Mitchell mad, now.

Once the door is shut behind him, Anders allows himself to show the toll of the damage done. He slumps over, even if it presses on his bladder. He needs a moment to breathe, which is hard to do. The lack of a mirror over the sink catches his eye again, but he’s grateful for Mitchell’s decision not to have one. He doesn’t want to see how pathetic he looks. Knows that he must look like a wounded animal.

The need to pee urges him upright, though he still hunches a little as he walks to the toilet. The small wave of relief that unbuttoning his jeans gives him doesn’t last long. The second he actually relaxes enough to let the stream start, the burning sensation flows through his body, dragging a little hiss through his teeth.

But the burning is nothing compared to the sharp, throbbing pain, as yellow gives way to red. He knew it would happen, and yet it’s no less awful.

It’s agony.

A whimper escapes despite doing his best to hold it back, and he quickly balls his fist to his mouth to muffle the sound of the second one slipping out.

The flow of urine continues, despite Anders’ avoidance of liquids, and he can’t help but wonder if someone is looking down on him, laughing at his extended torment.

The last whimper he makes is louder; he tries so hard to be quiet. His whole body is shaking in pain by the time he finally finishes. The sight of all the blood in the toilet nauseates him.

He slowly tucks himself back into his jeans, feeling overwhelmingly exhausted. All he wants is to curl up in a little ball under his blankets and sleep until the pain subsides enough for him to be able to stand up straight again.

A knock on the door startles him, making him groan as he nearly jumps out of his skin. 

“Hold on,” Anders mumbles at the door, reaching out to flush the evidence of his abuse away. Mitchell doesn’t need to see that. He doesn’t need to know.

 

* * *

 

 

Mitchell closes the spare bedroom door behind him, leaning back and letting his head fall against the wood. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to blot out the sounds of Anders whimpering in the bathroom. He tries to convince himself that maybe it’s not so bad, maybe it’s bad bruising. He doesn't get very far with that, not when each whimper is punctured by a sharp tang of copper invading Mitchell’s senses, and it’s all he can do to not tear down the door and go and make sure Anders is okay.

_Of course he’s not okay._

The smell of blood churns Mitchell’s stomach; not with hunger, but with a sickening disgust for the man who calls himself Anders’ father. He feels instincts prickling that he hasn’t felt in decades. Urges to hurt, to inflict pain, to kill. To watch the life fade from a human’s eyes as he rips out their throat and leaves them to drown.

His eyes flash to black before he even realises it’s happening, fangs burning as they descend. There’s a moment, a breath, where he wants to just let it in, let the monster invade his brain and watch the world bleed. 

But it’s only a moment.

Mitchell slams the door of the prison he’d built closed around the monster in his mind. His reactive horror quickly changes his eyes back to their usual hazel, fangs drawing back as suddenly as they’d appeared. He draws in a deep breath, panic overtaking him at what just happened, _how did that just happen,_ how dangerous that was with Anders bleeding in the next room.

He can’t even remember the last time he fed, his lifetime of abstinence allowing him to get by without for years at a time. Another whimper, louder this time, drifts through the wall and pushes all thoughts of anger and revenge from Mitchell’s mind. There’s no room left for anything but the overwhelming concern he feels.

He has to say something, to do something.

Sighing, he pushes off the wall and heads back out into the hall, tentatively knocking on the bathroom door when it sounds like Anders is done.

 

* * *

 

Anders moves to the door quickly, aware of the dangers of keeping people waiting.

When he opens it, he looks up at Mitchell, taking in how weary his face is. He was pretty sure he wasn’t making enough noise for Mitchell to hear him, but maybe he was close to the door. His eyebrows draw down and knit together. The asshole better not have been spying on him.

“Sorry, the first aid kit’s in here,” Mitchell points to the cabinet under the sink.

Anders lets out a small breath in relief. If he was just waiting outside, he supposes he can’t be that mad. It’s a little weird maybe, but Mitchell’s kinda weird anyways.

“Wait, why do you need the first aid kit?” Anders stares down at him as Mitchell bends to retrieve it from under the sink.

“For your hands,” Mitchell replies plainly, expression neutral, as he grabs it and stands back up.

“Oh.” Anders looks down at his hands, blood soaked and poorly wrapped in a thin layer of gauze this morning before heading to school. “I can do it on my own.”

He rolls his eyes while Anders is still staring at his hands. “I’m sure you can,” he mutters, trying not to grimace as the smell of blood gets stronger the closer he gets to the toilet. He closes the lid. “However seeing as how I’m the medical professional here, why don’t you just let me take care of it?” A frown appears on Anders’ brow just as Mitchell realises that he’s not mentioned his job to him yet. _Shit. He probably already thinks I’m weird._

Anders looks up at him. “So are you like a doctor, or something?”

“Hardly,” Mitchell snorts, watching a tiny smile tug at Anders’ lips. “Okay so just take those off and wash your hands and then come sit over here and i’ll take a look,” he continues hurriedly, before Anders asks anymore questions.

Anders looks like he might argue, but he closes his mouth and slowly moves to the sink.

Mitchell wants to do it for him, but he figures at least this way Anders will still feel like he can do some of it by himself.

His fingers pull the poor excuse for a bandaid away from his skin, before moving to the other hand. Mitchell catches the small hiss Anders makes to the sting of water and soap on the open cuts. He feels bad for making him wash them out, but he doesn’t want him to get an infection.

Sadness flows through him as Anders reaches for the towel before stopping with his fingers outstretched when he must realise he’s going to get blood on it. Mitchell catches him too late. He wipes his wet hands on his jeans instead, staining them with a small streak of blood.

“Give me your hand,” he tells him quietly, watching Anders turn his left over, palm still damp from the water. Mitchell grabs the towel off the rack and brings it down to dry it off properly, ignoring the shout of protest Anders makes.

“Don’t worry about the towel. I have plenty.”

Anders looks away, avoiding Mitchell’s eyes as he offers his other hand to be dried off. “Hold it there for a minute,” he directs him before moving to the sink and washing his own hands. When he shuts the tap off, Anders offers the towel back and he smiles as he takes it to dry his own hands off.

Mitchell grabs the first aid kit and settles down on one knee in front of him, grabbing one of those tiny hands for the second time in less than 24 hours. He inspects the wound closely, glad to see they’re not as deep as he feared. If Anders can keep them from getting re-injured, they’ll probably heal fine without stitches. But it’s not his hands he’s worried so much about. The slump of Anders’ body is so painfully apparent now, like he’s struggling to keep himself upright at all. _That’s because he is_ , Mitchell thinks ruefully.

He works silently, just giving Anders a little space to think, while Mitchell reaches inside himself to figure out how he’s going to get him to admit to his injuries and let him see. But when he tries to think of a question to ask or a gesture to make, no words or actions come to mind. It’s unhelpfully blank. As blank as the look in Anders’ eyes.

They’re distant, far off, and more than beyond exhausted. Mitchell can’t help but wonder when the last time the poor kid had a decent night of sleep was.

After the ointment is reapplied and fresh plasters are in place, Mitchell begins to unroll gauze around his hand.

“I’m sorry,” Anders sounds so crushed it feels like defeat itself to Mitchell. “I’m sorry for ruining the bandages. I’ll do better.”

Mitchell finishes the hand and looks up at Anders, watching those sad eyes try and hold his before his nerves force him to look away. “It’s not your fault, shit happens. I don’t mind redoing them.”

“But-"

“Really, it’s not a big deal, okay?” he cuts him off and picks up the other hand. Short fingers flex in his lax grip, before the hand opens and allows Mitchell to continue working. When he’s done, he gives the uninjured skin a little squeeze before letting go. His knees crack a little when he stands up.

Anders winces as he slides off the toilet and Mitchell can’t take it anymore. This is his fault and he knows it. He can feel it in his bones the way Anders must feel the ache in his.  

“Let me see your back, Anders,” Mitchell looks down at him, tries to keep the demand out of his voice. He wants it to sound like a question, but it doesn’t come out that way. And, of course, Anders bristles at his words.

“It’s nothing, really,” he shrugs it off, almost keeping his face from twisting at the strain it causes in his back.

“Please, just let me-"

“I said it’s not a big deal!” Anders tries to shoulder past Mitchell and out of the bathroom, but a hand catches his wrist and holds him still. Mitchell doesn’t want it to be like this, but there’s no way Anders is going to give up and show him.

A hand grips at the back of Anders’ shirt as he tries to turn away from it. “Don’t look at it!”

But it’s too late. The loose shirt offers no resistance to Mitchell’s insistent tug and the fabric is pulled up to reveal Anders’ mistakes and faults, laid out so easily for him to see.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Mitchell doesn’t mean for it slip past his lips, but it does. He can feel Anders stiffen, but he’s lost in the horror of the child’s back so raw and bruised. The skin is so purple it’s almost black over his right kidney. There’s clear lines of where a belt had whipped him relentlessly over and over. And he thought what he saw last night was terrifying. Seeing fresh, new bruises is so, so much worse. His stomach begins to roil at the sight in front of him. It’s a feeling he’s starting to become familiar with; one he’d be happy never to feel again.

“It’s fine. It’s nothing,” Anders mutters, feeling the eyes take in everything. He feels naked and exposed and he knows Mitchell must be judging him now. A cold hand presses over his right kidney, making Anders suck in a breath through his teeth.

“Shit, sorry. Sorry,” Mitchell lightens the pressure but leaves his hand there for a moment until Anders breathing evens out again.

“Your hands are always cold,” Anders points out, his eyes slipping shut at the small aid they give his back.

“Can’t really help it,” the smile in Mitchell’s voice makes Anders glance up.

“Maybe you should wear gloves.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he hums, finally pulling his hand away. Mitchell gently pulls the shirt back down, the secrets Anders can’t tell anyone else vanishing behind the fabric.

There’s an awkward moment where Anders tries to hold strong and stand upright, but he eventually gives in and leans against the sink. Watching the prideful look in his eyes fall into dejection is almost too much to bear.

“So are you-” Mitchell shoves his hands in his pockets, feeling embarrassed over the question he already knows the answer to.

“Go ahead and ask, asshole. Yeah, I’m pissing blood.”

Mitchell winces at his tone.

“You saw it in the toilet didn’t you?”

It dawns on him then that he doesn’t have an explanation ready, Anders answering a question he hadn’t been intending to ask. He wasn’t even going to ask, figured Anders would just lie if he did. And it’s not like he can tell the kid he could _smell_ it from the other room.

“The toilet, yeah,” he nods. Anders lets out a small sigh. “I know you said no last night but would you consider going to-”

“Can’t,” Anders shuts him down before he can even finish. “Really. Don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse.”

The fact that pissing _blood_ isn’t the worst thing to happen to him in Anders’ book makes Mitchell’s blood boil again. He wants to know, but at the same time, he knows the answer will be no easier to hear than the one he just gave him.

“It’ll heal in a couple of days. It did the last time.”

Mitchell stares. “This isn’t the first time?” he says, tone rising in disbelief.

“Nope. Probably won’t be the last either.”

Mitchell almost snaps. Almost. Feels the monster rearing its ugly head. Feels it snarling and biting and clawing at him from the inside.

Mitchell needs to find a way to get Anders out of that house. Needs to find a way to keep him safe. Give him a place to sleep, a chance for his body to heal properly. At least, the best that it can at this point. He knows the kid’s soul is damaged forever, large handprints forever staining it. But he knows it’s not broken. He can see the fight in Anders’ eyes. He can see the way he still struggles to keep his head above the water.

Mitchell knows he has to bite his tongue for today, but he makes a promise to himself he vows to never break. He will save Anders, even if it’s the last thing he does. He owes humanity this for his mistakes.

“Look this is a nice conversation and all,” Anders’ humorless voice breaks through his thoughts, “but I really have to go now.”

Mitchell exhales loudly and nods, hating himself for allowing the kid to go crawling back to what is probably another beating waiting for him. He wishes there was something he could do right this second, but he has to be careful about this. He has to be smart and figure things out or he’ll leave a trail of bodies in the wake of his rage, unable to stop himself from killing everyone that has ever thought about laying a finger on the boy in front of him.

“And about the book-”

“I don’t care about the book. But if you want, we can discuss it this weekend. Don’t worry about it for now, okay?”

Anders feels too drained right now to fight him, so he simply nods.

The trip down the steps is just as painful as the one going up them and the way Anders lets out a barely there groan as the backpack bumps against his sore flesh almost has Mitchell volunteering to walk him home.

But if he goes anywhere near to that house…

Maybe he should attempt to fix up his car, so the next time Anders is over, he can at least offer him a ride home. Or, rather, fight with him about it until he gives in. He doesn’t even know how far he has to walk. Mitchell hopes beyond hope it’s not too far.

“See you Saturday?” Mitchell asks as he walks Anders to the door, trying to keep the disappointment in himself out of his voice. He hates himself for sending the kid back there. Absolutely hates himself. But what choice does he have?

“Yeah, Saturday,” Anders repeats. He looks out the door, then back up at Mitchell. “See you later, asshole,” he tells him, putting his brave face back on as he steps out the door.

It breaks every piece of Mitchell’s heart.

He can’t watch Anders walk away and disappear down the street. With the growing intensity of his injuries, his mind uselessly reminds Mitchell this could be the last time he ever sees him.

 _Not the last_ , something vicious whispers in his mind, images of a little boy he never knew flashing behind his eyes.

If Anders dies, the next time Mitchell will see him will be on the metal slab in the morgue. Another one of his failures staring him in the face.

He walks back inside, catches sight of the broken contents of the book sitting on his coffee table. Mitchell can’t help but think it reminds him of himself. He feels equally useless and ripped apart, with nothing left to offer to Anders in words of comfort or ways to help. It’s all words and missing pieces, torn and frayed.

Mitchell collects the pages and brings them into the kitchen, lingering over the bin. But when he goes to throw the book away, he can’t seem to actually let go. With a sigh, he sets it on the counter, his earlier abandoned mug catching his eye.  Now is definitely a good time for tea.

It’s not until the kettle’s whistling that he realises he’d been hoping to hear a tiny knock on the door again. _Don’t be stupid_ , he tells himself with a shake of his head. Anders would be home by now.

 

* * *

   
_This is taking too long_.

The long mile drags on, Anders’ speed even slower with the throbbing ache in his side. He hitches his backpack up higher, not even halfway back yet. He gazes upwards at the dark clouds gathering, a storm brewing on the horizon. Anders hopes the storm is only rain and thunder, and not the anger of his parents waiting for him at home.

He’s not sure when they will be home, if they even will at all. But if they are, he’s already fucked up and left Ty alone not even a week after he’s been told not to. The bruise marks are still there, faded to a light yellow, a constant reminder of who he’s supposed to be. His brother’s minder, a quiet shadow to keep an eye and then disappear as soon as his parents get home. He’s getting good at that, he thinks, disappearing. Sometimes he wonders if anyone would even notice if he never came back at all.

A small smile twists his lips as he turns on to the next street. Maybe someone might, after all.

Maybe Mitchell would.

  



	5. Two Seconds Too Late

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *peeks out from under a rock* We're still here :D
> 
> Many apologies for how long this has taken us! Just a couple of notes/warnings for this one:
> 
> 1\. We know we promised a cute chapter but that really didn't happen. Rather than laying out where to start/stop reading at the beginning of each chapter, and clogging up the notes, if you are one of our readers who normally has to skim over certain parts, please just PM me (pyx) on tumblr and I will go through with you where to start and stop.   
> 2\. With that in mind, this chapter contains quite a few flashbacks, and is probably as bad as things are going to get abuse-wise in this story. Separate tag warnings for this chapter: vomit, suicidal ideations.  
> 3\. It's 33K words long this chapter, so, if you're on your 5 minute cigarette break from work, you might want to wait till you get home :)  
> 4\. This fic is set in 1994 just btw.

“ _Yeah, you really got me now, you got me so I don’t know what I’m doin’, now...”_

Mitchell’s head bounces to the music as he sings softly under his breath, the low brogue of his accent tempering the sound. The clink of steel meeting iron as bacon sizzles and tea brews joins the low thud of Mitchell tapping a spatula on the counter top; percussion to his singing. There’s a pause in the beat as he turns to get the juice from fridge; orange not apple.

“ _See, don’t ever set me free, I always wanna be by your side..._ ”

Another utensil finds it’s way into Mitchell’s spare hand as he loses himself to the beat of the 1960’s _._ He’d been in Peru then, losing himself in an _entirely_ different kind of pleasure and addiction. Mitchell smiles wryly; how very different things had been back then. He’s so caught up in the music and his memories that he almost misses the quiet knock on his front door. Throwing his makeshift drumsticks into the sink, he turns down the bacon and the music and heads out into the hall, rueful smile on his face when he notices the absence of the smell of fresh blood he’s inadvertently started associating with Anders.

Pulling open the door he’s pleasantly surprised to see Anders looking, well, almost _normal._ Today’s shirt, a plaid one that’s slightly smaller than the one Mitchell gave him, though still too big, for once isn’t completely swamping his small frame, and there are no new bruises decorating his face or neck. The older ones have faded to a dull yellow that, while still unsettling to see, are no longer such a violent reminder of what Mitchell knows had transpired earlier in the week.  

“Hey kiddo,” he chirps, grinning at the dirty look Anders throws him as he steps over the threshold.

“Stop calling me that, that’s not my name,” Anders replies, head turning towards the sound of the music drifting out of the kitchen as he toes off his shoes. “Asshole,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

Mitchell decides to ignore the contradiction of that comment and instead focuses on the way Anders’ eyes light up when he catches the scent of freshly cooked bacon being carried into the hall on the sound waves of The Kinks.

“You hungry?” Mitchell says, brushing past and heading into the kitchen. He waits until he hears Anders following before he grabs two plates from a shelf.

“No I…I already ate,” Anders replies, looking down at the floor when Mitchell turns to look at him, one eyebrow raised in disbelief.

“You sure about that?” Mitchell asks, humour colouring his tone when Anders’ stomach gives an unmistakeable rumble.

“Yeah. I’m sure,” Anders says, still avoiding Mitchell’s eye.

Figuring Anders hesitancy to eat is related to the abuse he suffers at home, Mitchell refrains from pushing the subject. It doesn’t change the fact that he looks starving though, and Mitchell can’t help the knot of worry twisting in his gut.

“Okay, well. It’s there if you want it,” he says instead, putting the plate of bacon sandwiches in the middle of the table. He takes a seat, looking pointedly at the one in front of him until Anders reaches forward to curl his fingers around the back of it.

“You can sit down,” Mitchell says as he watches doubt flicker across Anders face. He sighs internally. He wants Anders to feel comfortable here, not like he has to ask to be allowed to do the simplest things.

_Maybe you should just tell him that, Mitchell._

“If you want to do something you don’t have to wait for me to say it’s okay, you know,” he offers, as Anders finally takes a seat.

Anders stiffens immediately, hands curling into fists in his lap as he bristles at Mitchell’s comment.

Mitchell could slap himself, remembering too late how well the direct approach had gone down the last time he’d tried it.

_Maybe not, then._

Anders bites his tongue so as not to snarl back at him. It’s not Mitchell’s fault, he just doesn’t understand. Doesn’t get that in Anders’ house, doing things without permission is an open invitation for a beating. Doesn’t realise that Anders is lucky if he even gets to eat on a daily basis. Doesn’t know that Anders is missing 3 days from his memory after that time when he dared to say that he was hungry, and was subsequently hit round the head with a pan.

Anders winces at that particular memory, eyes roving the kitchen as he tries not to gaze longingly at the food in front of him.

Mitchell watches Anders flinch with a pang of regret, wishing he hadn’t asked the question that appears to have brought up some unpleasant memory. He can only imagine how many of those there are. Pushing that thought away, he gently nudges the plate over to Anders when he catches him looking at it again.

“Please, eat something. I’ll never finish it on my own,” he says with a lopsided grin. It’s a white lie, Mitchell knows he could demolish twice that amount without stopping, but he made the food with the intention of feeding Anders and if he has to bend the truth to do so then he’s not going to feel bad about it.

Anders eyes the plate warily, slowly reaching out and then snatching his hand away as soon as he’s grabbed the sandwich nearest him. He glances either side of himself, as if someone’s going to suddenly appear and wrench the food away from him, before slowly taking a bite.

It’s like watching a floodgate open.

Mitchell watches as Anders practically inhales the first sandwich, barely even swallowing between bites, before grabbing a second and then a third and shoving them in his mouth too.

“You good?” Mitchell asks when Anders finally comes up for air. He watches the blush creeping across Anders’ cheekbones as he surveys the pile of crumbs on the table in front of him, and the empty plate of sandwiches in front of that. Embarrassment turns to horror and Mitchell can practically hear the wheels turning in Anders’ head as he begins fumbling over an apology.

“Hey, stop that.” Mitchell breaks the storm before it has a chance to swell. “Don’t apologise. It’s fine. I wouldn’t have offered you food if I didn’t want you to eat it.”

God only knows that Mitchell’s well aware of the pain of true _hunger._

Anders absently chews on his lip, torn between wanting to apologise for eating most of Mitchell’s breakfast, and wanting to ask if there’s anymore. He hadn’t actually eaten since Wednesday, giving up his food to Ty the following days so that he would have enough. He can’t bear the thought of his little brother going hungry.

Clearing his throat, he reaches for a glass of juice instead, trying to push down the hissing voice of his father in his head that’s telling him he’s already had enough, he’s already taken more than he deserves.

_“Oh, my life, is changing everyday, in every possible way. And oh, my dreams, it’s never quite as it seems, never quite as it seems…”_

Mitchell watches Anders out of the corner of his eye as he sips his tea, feeling the awkwardness of the silence stretching throughout his kitchen to go and mingle with the cobwebs in the corner. He shifts, racking his brains for something to say. He was so intent on getting Anders to come over, to be somewhere safe, that he hadn’t really thought much about what he’d do once he’d arrived. A generic question is poised to roll of the tip of his tongue when he’s thankfully saved by Anders cutting across him.

“What song is this?”

He glances over his shoulder at the little radio perched on the windowsill. “It’s ‘Dreams’, by The Cranberries _._ Do you like it?”

Anders shrugs in response. “It’s okay, I guess.”

Mitchell, realising by this point that when Anders says he thinks something’s ‘okay’ it tends to mean it’s actually something he really likes but doesn't want to admit, leans over and turns up the volume. He smiles when Anders seems to relax at the sound, curling his hands around his mug as he watches him.

“Does it remind you of home?”

Mitchell starts at the unexpected question, grip tightening around his ‘Keep Calm and Carry On Drinking’mug; the irony of which is not lost on him. Nor is the fact that Anders is evidently more attuned to sound than he’d realised. _Either that or he’s a secret Cranberries fan,_ Mitchell thinks, eyes sparkling in amusement.

“I suppose it does a bit, yeah,” he replies, the shabby pubs of his youth a fond memory; broken bar stools, and laughter, and muddy boots and live music drifting through warm doorways and down cobbled streets.

“I guess…” Mitchell pauses, unsure how much he wants to share, before realising that it’s not fair for him to ask Anders to open up to him if he’s not willing to do the same. “I guess I don’t really think of Ireland as my home anymore. I’ve been here for so long I just think of New Zealand as my home now.”

He’s never said those words out loud before, and to be honest he’s not even sure if he’s truly _believed_ them before this moment. This place he’s settled in, so like his homeland in so many ways, has offered him more a feeling of _home_ than anywhere else in almost a century.

Mitchell looks down at the chipped mug in his hands; it had been a gift from a colleague who’d looked confused but deigned not to say anything when Mitchell had burst out laughing at it. He follows the veins in the wood of his table, the slight crack in the corner of the window, the doors that have always squeaked and that he’ll probably never actually buy the WD-40 for because secretly he’d miss the sound. _Yes,_ he thinks, _this is home._

He glances up to see Anders looking at him appraisingly.

“When did you leave Ireland then?” Anders asks, curious about Mitchell’s background, but not stupid enough to ask _why_ instead of _when._

“Oh, almost 80 years ago now,” Mitchell replies wistfully, still gazing fondly around his little house before snapping back to Anders the moment he realises what he just said.

_What the fuck are you playing at Mitchell?_

He hasn’t fucked up that badly in _years_ now, a well rehearsed answer to the classic ‘so how long have you been in New Zealand?’ question stored up his sleeve. But Anders hadn’t asked that. And none of the strangers who had, had made him feel as comfortable as he did in the presence of this kid.

_Apparently contentment breeds stupidity,_ his mind screams at him.

Anders stares blankly back at him, chewing on his lower lip and frowning and, quite frankly, looking at Mitchell as if he’s an idiot.

“I mean,” Mitchell coughs, stalling, “I _meant,_ my family moved here almost 80 years ago. Obviously I haven’t been here for 80 years,” he jokes, but it falls flat as Anders frown deepens and Mitchell’s nerves scatter across the table.

“But you still have the accent?” Anders points out.

_Christ Mitchell you are such an idiot._

“Well my ma moved back before I was born and met my dad there so, I was born there. We all came back out here later though,” Mitchell answers hurriedly, trying to be vague so as to lessen the sting of the lies he’s forced to tell.

He registers the radio ticking over in the back of his mind, forcing it’s way between his panicked thoughts, and he jumps on the chance to change the subject away from himself and back to Anders.

“What music do you like then?” Mitchell asks before Anders has a chance to ask more questions about his past. He leans back in his seat, hoping the mask of cool calm he’s put on is at least a little bit believable.

_What music do you like then?_

Anders can’t remember the last time someone asked him a question about himself; the last time someone cared about what he liked or his opinion, and actually seemed genuinely interested in the answer.

It throws him, and he’s already off-kilter from Mitchell’s bizarre behaviour. He wants to question him more, but he senses the topic’s off-limits. He’s good at that; at knowing when to shut the hell up.

To be honest, he doesn’t know much about music. The radio in their house was broken years ago during one of Joe’s drunken tirades, and Mike threatened to break his fingers the last time Anders had gone near his CD player.

Not that Mitchell needs to know that.

He smiles softly as his wandering mind settles on one of his few happy childhood memories.

“I like Neil Young _._ ”

Mitchell hums in agreement, but doesn’t say anything.

Anders frowns when he realises Mitchell wants him to continue. He’s not used to talking about himself. Maybe he can tell Mitchell this though. It’s only an innocent memory. Mitchell wouldn’t use that against him, he thinks.

“I haven’t gotten to listen to much, but I did get to listen to a record once,” Anders starts. He trails off for a second, before sighing when Mitchell keeps looking at him with that interested, expectant look.

“When I was younger, my parents went out for a bit and me and my brothers listened to it together.”

 

* * *

 

_"Mike, you should be careful!” Anders pokes his head inside of his parents’ bedroom door. His big brother is rifling through their things, leaving a small mess in his wake. Anders cringes at both the noise Mike was making and the disorder he was leaving behind him._

_“Don’t worry so much, Anders,” Mike turns and smiles at him. “I know what I’m doing.”_

_Anders tugs at his shirt and nods. He isn’t exactly convinced, though._

_Mike lets out a noise of acknowledgment when he finally finds was he was looking for. “Here it is,” he moves aside a few shirts from the old box of vinyl records._

_The cardboard is falling apart at the bottom, barely able to support the weight of the albums inside it. Mike moves it carefully, his nose crinkling as dust irritates it. Carefully, he sits it down on the bed before beginning to shuffle through the records. He’s not sure exactly which one he’s looking for, but he’ll know it when he sees it. Anders watches as Mike pulls one out here and there to examine, before frowning and putting it back in the box._

_Anders bit his lip nervously._

_Mike could at least_ try _to put them back in order. From his experience, it was always better to leave something_ exactly _the way he found it, if he needed to go through his parents’ things._

_Or, to just not touch it at all._

“Mike was the one who wanted to listen to it. He wanted to hear that song. You know the _one_ everyone plays on the radio?” Anders’ fingers twitch over his glass.

“Heart of Gold,” Mitchell offers instantly, already knowing exactly which song Anders was referring to.

“Yeah, that one.”

_Mike wrenches a record from its spot, a little “ah hah!” falling from his lips as he holds it out in front of him. But Anders can’t focus on the record. He’s too busy counting how many records are supposed to be in front of the one Mike just took. Later, before his parents get home, he can return it mostly to it’s original place._

_Anders moves back as Mike starts to walk towards him. “The last time Olaf was here, he showed me this record. I just wanted to hear a song or two I remember. And then we’ll put it back, okay?”_

_Anders gives a little nod and sighs quietly to himself. This is a terrible idea. He knows it is._

_But Mike rarely seems this excited these days. And Anders doesn’t think he can take that from him._

_His big brother smiles down at him, reaching out to ruffle Anders’ hair as he passes._

_“Come help me set up the record player?”_

_“Okay,” he agrees quickly. At least this way Anders can supervise him to make sure he doesn’t break anything. Before he follows after his brother, he bends down and picks Ty up off the floor from where he’d trailed Anders down the hall. “What are you doing down here? I thought I told you to stay in the other room,” he grumbles halfheartedly in Ty’s ear as he adjusts his little brother and carries him back down the hall._

_Ty babbles happily in his ear, stringing together a sentence Anders can’t quite follow. The sound should be soothing to him, but instead it bundles around his already knotted nerves. He’s not sure how his two brothers seem to feel so comfortable right now._

_He can’t help but wonder if maybe he’s the only one who feels this anxious all the time._

_Anders sits Ty down on the floor, makes sure he’s comfortable before he grabs a toy to give to him. Anders picks up a small boat off the floor and hands it his brother to play with and keep him occupied while he helps Mike with the record player._

_After making sure his little brother is absolutely safe, he heads over to where Mike is fumbling with the seldom used machine. He tries to remember the last time he even heard music coming from it._

_Probably the last time Olaf was here._

“We’d never really used the record player before, but Mike was pretty determined to figure it out,” Anders continues, trying not to add too much detail. He remembers the day like it was just yesterday, but he doesn’t want to bore Mitchell with everything he can remember about it. Everyone always says he talks too much.

Mitchell nods, doesn’t say anything. He wants to seem encouraging, but not over eager. And he doesn’t want to seem completely disinterested either. It’s strange how aware he is of how his hands are positioned.

“Made me kind of nervous,” Anders shrugs his shoulder. “But we figured it out in the end.”

_Neither of them are entirely sure how it works, but after some hesitant placements and a very cautious test run, music starts to drift from the small speakers and slowly fill the room._

Really?

_Anders looks from the record to Mike. Usually his brother listened to music that was far louder than this. Often times he’d crank up the small tape player in the kitchen when their parents weren’t home, sing along to some of the words he could remember. Anders doesn’t really like the music Mike seemed to enjoy listening to. He has angry words being shouted at him on a daily basis enough as it is._

_But this. This is nice. Happy, almost. With a hint of sadness underneath that belies the shell outside of the song._

_Anders definitely likes it._

_“Who is this?” he asks after a second, just listening to the song and letting the notes wash over him._

_“Neil Young. The album’s called ‘Harvest,” Mike answers, holding out the vinyl cover for Anders to look at. “This song is called ‘Out on the Weekend.”_

_“I like it,” Anders admits, looking back down at the disk spinning on the player. “It’s calm,” he points out._

_“That’s why I like it,” Mike divulges after a second. “Everything around us is so loud. Sometimes it’s nice to listen to something quiet for a once.”_

_Anders nods, wondering if that was the same way he felt. Sometimes it was hard to put his finger on exactly what he was feeling. But he thinks about it for a minute; adds Mike’s words to his thoughts to see if they match up. Maybe that is what he’s feeling._

_The realisation makes his body feel a little lighter than it has a few moments ago, taking a bit of the pressure off his shoulders to try and understand what his feelings mean._

_The music slowly drifts across the room, bouncing off the walls only to return back to them. It fills the small living room and makes the space feel less empty. And maybe just a bit warmer._

“I remember really liking the first song. It just sounded so easy and peaceful. When Mike first put the record on, I was sure we’d be listening to something really loud and angry. He likes loud and angry music a lot,” Anders lips give a little twitch of a smile.

Mitchell smiles back, as if he were in on the joke too. Anders’ lips pull a little wider as his nails tap absently at his glass.

_“I think it’s this one,” Mike points to the the third track on the back of the album cover, “‘Heart of Gold’. I want to hear it again. But the whole album was pretty good. We'll just listen until the song is over and then we’ll put it back, alright?”_

_“Okay,” Anders nods again, his mind already wandering back to the lyrics humming through the speakers. He follows Mike to the couch, vaguely aware his feet feel like they’re almost moving to the beat. He never knew music could feel this_ good _._

_The words swirl around the notes, combining together in his ears. He can’t help but find himself lost in it all. He sits down on the couch, barely registering Mike sitting down next to him. A tug at his pants followed by a little, demanding “up!” pulls him from his mind. Anders smiles as he leans down, hoisting Ty up onto the couch. He bends down again and picks up the little truck that didn’t make it on Ty’s journey to the couch. Handing it back to him, tiny hands take the truck and wave it around in the air. The toy will keep Ty busy, so Anders can go back to enjoying the music._

_Not that Ty really fusses much._

_The album continues playing, the song moving from one to the next. Ty plays quietly by himself, tiny little car noises accompany the sounds of the music._

“I don’t really remember songs individually. But I really liked them. And how they flowed. I recognised that they were separate on the record, but together they sounded like one long song. Like they belonged together.”

With a small pang to his chest, Mitchell realises this entire morning has been the most he’s ever heard Anders talk. And the way his voice is starting to take on a very minor hoarse tone that only his ears could probably pick up, tells him exactly what he hoped wasn’t true.

This is the most Anders has talked in a long time.

“I know what you mean,” Mitchell tells him, watching the way Anders face almost looks shocked for a second before it falls back into neutrality. “I haven’t listened to that album in a long time, but the songs do fit well together, don’t they?”

Anders nods.

_After another song, Anders feels his body becoming light, the anxiety in the pit of his stomach coming loose at the ends, starting to untie as the beat lifts and falls around him. A smile tugs at his lips as he feels Ty tuck into his side, not bothering to stifle his little yawn. It was almost nap time, and Ty was certainly feeling it._

_Mike swings his arm around Anders’ shoulders, the feeling not entirely heavy on his back. It’s a pleasant weight, filling him with warmth and a small sense of comfort he hasn’t felt in so long._

_Things almost feel normal today. Like their world isn’t filled with screaming and fighting and hunger and neglect and abuse._

_Anders can almost pretend that that life isn’t his own, that he’s just a normal kid, with normal parents and brothers. He feels like he can pretend, just for a moment, that he’s happy._

_And the warmth in his stomach almost makes him really believe he is happy, today._

_The song Mike wanted to hear had long past and Ty had fallen asleep ten minutes ago. Both Mike and Anders know they should get up and shut the record off and put everything back exactly where they had found it. But they’re both so desperate to cling to the feeling of peace and calm, so desperate not to break it._

_It’s irresponsible and reckless and in the end, they will pay for it._

“We didn’t get to finish it, though,” Anders starts to trail off again. His eyes seem to cloud a little, darkening at a part of his memory that Mitchell knows Anders won’t tell. “Our parents were going to come home soon, so,” he gives another nonchalant shrug. “But I liked what I got to hear.”

“Sounds like a nice day,” Mitchell comments, not quite sure if Anders would appreciate him pointing out that the memory doesn’t quite light up his eyes. He’s sure there’s more to it from what he’s learned about Anders so far, but it’s not his place to ask. If Anders had wanted him to know, he would have told him.

Still, he can’t help but feel the weight in his stomach grow heavier at the question of whether Anders has a single happy memory that hasn’t been tainted by abuse or neglect.

“Yeah, it was,” Anders shrugs, fiddling with the glass of juice, now empty. He licks his lips for a trace of the taste, wishing he could have more. Wishes he could wash out the bitter taste in his mouth the memory leaves.

But one was too many to begin with. And the sandwiches sit heavy in stomach, serving as a reminder he already took more than what he deserved.

“Actually, that reminds me,” Mitchell looks up from the small hands twirling the empty glass, an idea forming in his mind. “I was gonna go to the record shop yesterday, but I ended up working late. We could go now, if you want? It’s a nice day. Well, for winter anyway.”  

Truthfully, Mitchell’s been distracted all week trying to think of something nice they could do that day without Anders being suspicious. He doesn’t want Anders to actually have to _do_ any chores, sure that the poor kid gets enough of that home, but he also doesn’t want him to think that Mitchell’s giving him charity. He knows enough by now to know that it probably wouldn’t go down well.

_To be fair, it’s not really charity,_ Mitchell reasons, _not when I just want some company, too._

“If that’s what you want. But, I’m not sure how I’m going to pay you back if I don’t actually _do_ anything,” Anders says, glancing away.

He’s calculating how many lunches he’ll have to miss to pay Mitchell back for the book, let alone the bottle of whiskey he stupidly broke, when Mitchell gets his attention.

Mitchell can’t help but feel a bit crushed at that. He doesn’t want to be yet another person that just makes Anders feel used. Standing up to take their dishes over to the sink, he resigns himself to the fact that going along with this is what’s best for Anders in the long run.

“Well, we have plenty of time for chores. There’s just not a lot to do today, and the sun is actually out for the first time this week. We should go out. Enjoy it.”

Anders still doesn’t look convinced. Mitchell sighs internally, turning to rinse the plates under the tap.

“If you really want to, you can carry my bag?” he suggests, giving Anders a small smile over his shoulder. He doesn’t necessarily _want_ Anders to have to carry his bag, but if it would help make him more comfortable, he supposes he could make an exception today.

Anders still looks suspicious, but shrugs and brings his empty glass over to Mitchell.

“Okay, whatever,” he says, gaze fixated on the glass in his hand. He wants to go to the tap and fill it with water, his stomach feeling uneasy at having more food in it than it’s had in weeks; but Mitchell’s already reaching over to take it from him, and the last thing Anders wants to do is _ask._

Asking has never gotten him anything except another physical reminder of how unimportant his needs are.

“Great,” Mitchell grins, oblivious to the storm brewing in Anders’ mind, “go put your shoes on, I’m just gonna grab my jacket.”

Anders throws one last furtive glance at the sink before sighing and heading out into the hall. _You’re supposed to be paying him back, not taking even more that you don’t deserve._

He'd already learnt that nothing good comes from asking for more. He only takes what is offered, as little as it may be. He doesn't need anymore. He's had enough.

_The door opens before they even realise their parents are home. Anders and Mike freeze, just as their parents take in what’s happening._

_“Is that my record?” Their dad’s voice sounds almost disbelieving; shocked that his sons would dare put a foot out of line._

_“I can explain,” Mike answers quickly, sitting up and moving his arm from around Anders’ shoulder. It’s odd how he feels so much heavier, even though the weight had been removed._

_Their mom skirts around their father, heading directly for Ty. “You didn’t put him down for his nap?” her eyes narrow as she turns towards Anders._

_“I-I lost track of time. I’m sorry,” he glances down at his hands, balled into little fists on his thighs. She grumbles something he doesn’t quite hear as she lifts her youngest son off of the couch._

_“We just really wanted to listen to this album,” Mike starts, trying to keep eye contact with their father as he steps closer._

_“Dad, we just-” Anders tries to jump in, help Mike defend themselves. Eyes snap to him and Anders shrinks back from their intensity._

_“You go wait in your room,” he snarls. Even if Anders wanted to argue, he knows better. So instead, he shares a glance with his brother, before sliding off the couch and heading towards his bedroom._

_He shuts it behind him as quiet as he can, not wanting to anger their dad anymore than he already is. He bites his lip, pacing the floor back and forth. He can’t hear any shouting, which he finds oddly discomforting._

_No shouting was a good thing right?_

_His stomach churns with dread, his anxiety spiking as he tries to hear what’s being said. He just wants to get this over with, and it feels like it’s taking hours._

_His door slams open, just to be thrown shut equally as loud._

_“How many times do I have to tell you little fucks not to touch my things?”_

_Anders swallows hard, his stomach rolling in his nervousness. “Dad, we-“_

_“I don’t want to hear any of your bullshit excuses!” his dad growls at him, reaching out to grab him by the collar of his shirt. Anders thinks about running. He still can’t help the natural instinct that wells up in him to run. It always makes it worse, though, so he stops himself from doing little more than trying to jerk out of his father’s grasp._

_“I’m not making anything up! I’m trying to tell you wh-“_

_A slap silences him, making him bite back the story that bubbles in his throat. It dies before it can ever form words and sentences. It settles deep in the pit of his stomach, just like all the other tales and truths he’ll never get the chance to tell._

_“You brother told me what happened. You think just because I’m gone you can just sneak around and take whatever you want?”_

_“No,” Anders groans out as his dad shakes him by the collar of his shirt._

_“So tell me why you told you brother it would be okay to rifle through my record collection,” his dad spits in his face._

_Anders pales. His blood freezes in his veins. “Mike… Mike said that I…?”_

_“Did I fucking stutter? Yes,_ Mike said _,” his dad sneers the last two words, mocking Anders’ voice. When his son doesn’t answer fast enough he slaps him hard across the mouth._

_“No!” Anders nearly screams as his dad shoves him hard to the ground. Anders scrambles to his knees and tries to crawl away. A foot kicks out against ribs and Anders cries out against the pain blooming through his body. “I’m sorry!”_

_Anders knows it’s Mike’s word against his own. And the second kick to his abdomen has him tucking his legs up to his chest to protect his organs like Mike taught him to do._

_How could Mike have lied like that? Anders had_ told _him not to touch their parents’ things. He had told him it wouldn’t end well. He_ warned _him._

_And Mike had lied._

_But there’s no use in telling his dad what did happen. He’s angry now and it’s just easier to ride out the storm and wait for it to stop._

_Another kick, this time to his leg, makes him cry out in pain._

_“I’m sorry!” Anders tries to appease his father again, as he ducks his head down into the protective ball he’s curling into. It’s hardly much, but the bed against his back leaves his kidneys and spine safe from harm, while his legs, far less breakable, hide his ribs and internal organs. It’s poor armor, but it’s the most Anders can do for himself._

_But it’s not enough._

_Hands reach down and haul him up. Anders shakes violently in his dad’s grip._

_“I didn’t think-“_

_“No, you didn’t. You never fucking think do you?” his dad’s breath smells sour and Anders winces as he’s given another jarring shake._

_“No…” Anders stares down at the floor, trying to look even more ashamed of himself than he feels. The back of a hand smashes against his jaw and Anders twitches as he groans out his pain. Why would Mike betray him like this? Why?_

_Did he do something wrong?_

_Did he say something to make Mike mad at him? Mike always has his back. He’s always helping him out. And he’s even lied_ for _him a few times. So why would he lie now?_

_Maybe Anders owes him. For those times Mike took a beating for him._

_But still, the betrayal tastes bitter in his mouth as he’s dropped just as cruelly as he was lifted. He quickly curls back in on himself, his whole body shaking in fear._

_Anders thinks it might be over when his dad’s foot doesn’t kick him again. But the sickening, unmistakable clatter of the belt buckle being undone has his entire body going rigid._

_Anders wants to shout. Wants to scream._ Dad, wait! It’s not my fault! _It wasn’t. He had tried to stop Mike. He warned him. He told him it was a bad idea._

_But as the first whip of the leather on his skin sends pain radiating through his entire being, he can’t find the words he needs anymore. And they too, settle in his stomach like all the others that have before._

_His heart speeds up as another strike lands on his thigh. He needs to stay closed up in a ball. He_ has _to._

_But he can’t with the third strike, forcing his legs outward to go stiff in a desperate attempt to not feel the pain consuming him quickly._

_It’s a mistake. He knows it is._

_Reminds himself just as his dad whips him hard in this side of his ribs._

_Anders yelps and tries to bring his legs back up, but he’s not fast enough to avoid the whip of the belt across his hip._

_He’s able to fend off the next with his legs, but the one that comes after across his arms has him screaming so loud, he’s sure the whole world can hear._

_Just as his father raises the belt, Anders hears the sound of mercy._

_On any other day, he would shrink in on himself at the sound. But right now, in this moment, it’s salvation._

“Joe!”

_His mother’s voice echoes through the house, bearing a tone that just drips with finality._

_“You stay here,” Anders dad snarls down at him, giving him a good kick before he turns away._

_Anders can’t move. His whole body aches and stings and he wishes it would just stop shaking. He wishes he could stop hearing Mike in his head. He never actually heard what his brother said to their dad. But traitorous words bubble in his hazy mind._

_Anders tucks into himself just a little bit tighter._

_He hopes that his dad will just leave him alone for the rest of the night. The last thing he wants is for him to come finish what he started. He knows he should feel grateful that he’s even getting this break in the abuse._

_But he can’t._

_His mouth tastes like cigarette ash and salt and milk gone off._

_He’s not sure how long he lays there huddled on the floor. Feet pad across the hall and into the room, a hand gently touching his shoulder has him flinching away from the contact._

_He lets out a small groan of pain as the movement causes his muscles to flex and twist in ways they don’t want to._

_“Anders,” Mike gives him a little shake. “Anders I’m so sorry,” he whispers down to his little brother._

_Anders heart speeds up and that taste comes back to his mouth. His closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see Mike._

_He doesn’t want to know if he’ll lie to him like he lied to their dad._

_Anders turns away from him._

_“Leave me alone, Mike,” he whispers, his mouth and lips feeling raw and dry from his screams. “Leave me alone.”_

_Mike draws away from him. He lingers in the doorway for a moment before he turns to leave, shutting the door quietly behind him._

_Anders listens to the sounds of his quiet footsteps fading as Mike walks back down the hall towards his own bedroom. Once he hears the creak and click of the door being shut, Anders scrambles to get to one of his favorite spots to hide in._

_He knows it’s not actually a good place to hide, but it’s a place he definitely feels safe._

_He pulls himself under the bed, hands quickly dragging the thin blanket off of his mattress and down to the floor. It’s not enough to keep him truly warm, but it’s better than nothing._

_With a bit of reluctance, Anders finally gets his body to cooperate and roll himself up in his blanket the way he likes best. He burrows his face under the cover, laying his head flat against the wood. He always feels better if he can hear the vibrations of someone coming before they actually reach his room._

_Anders wills himself not fall asleep like this. If his dad comes back and finds him hiding, he’ll get beat worse than usual._

_His dad was never a fan of hunting down his targets._

_No, he really shouldn’t let himself fall asleep._

_But the small comfort the dark space provides, combined with the little warmth the blanket gives off, Anders can’t help it. His eyes slip shut and he lets the darkness pull him down._

_Anders wakes to a tug on his ankle._

_Panic shoots through his body, coursing through his veins at the sensation. He startles so bad, he slams his head against the bottom of his bed in his attempt to get away from the questing hand. He yelps loudly and nearly kicks away from whoever is grabbing him._

_He fucked up. He knew he shouldn’t have let himself fall asleep. He knew this would happen. His heart speeds up so fast he thinks it might just rip itself apart as fear takes over him. He knows he’s going to get beat so hard now. Fuck, he—_

_“Ansers!”_

_The little voice causes his heart to stop for a second._

_“Ty?”  Anders’ eyes widen as he turns to look in the direction of the voice, thanking every god there might be that he didn’t just kick his little brother in the face. His eyes blink a few times to try and clear the sleep and panic from his brain. His ears pick up the sounds of birds and he knows it must be morning._

_Ty flops onto his stomach and belly crawls under the bed towards his big brother. “’M hungry, Ansers,” Ty tells him, getting right in his face and putting cold little fingers on his cheeks._

_Anders takes a deep breath and lets a smile tug at his lips. “Have you had breakfast yet?”_

_Ty shakes his head. “No.”_

_“Are mom and dad home?”_

_Another little shake of his head, followed by a small frown. “No.”_

_“Do you want pancakes?”_

_Anders reaches out just in time to grab his little brother and keep him from bumping his own head from how fast he moves at the mere mention of his favorite food._

_“Yes!” he shrieks. “Pancakes!”_

_Anders lets him crawl back out from under the bed when he’s sure he won’t hurt himself. It takes a few seconds for his muscles and joints to comply, aching from last night and falling asleep on the hardwood. He stands up and stretches the best he can before he reaches down to grab Ty’s hand._

_“How many do you want?” Anders looks down at him, trying to hide his wince._

_“Twelve-teen.”_

_“That’s not a real number, Ty.” He quirks an eyebrow at his little brother as Ty gives him a shrug._

_The house seems to be empty and Anders wonders if Mike is still asleep. He pauses at his door and hears the sound of him turning in his bed. When he reaches the kitchen, tugged along by his brother, he gets out the box of pancake mix._

_He thinks about how many he should make, decides he only needs to eat one for himself._

_He’s about to pour some mix into the bowl for Mike when he stops himself._

_His heart thumps in his chest and tears well up in his eyes and he doesn’t know why he’s crying, and it’s so humiliating when Ty looks up at him and lets out a panicked little noise._

_“It’s okay, Ty. I’m okay,” Anders tells him as his little brother hugs him around the waist. He doesn’t hug him back. He knows he should, but he just can’t make himself._

_Ty doesn’t eat anywhere close to twelve-teen pancakes, and Anders has to force down the last half of his one._

_His stomach hurts._

_He still has to look over all of his new bruises. The ones on his arm, flat and thick, a perfect imprint of his father’s belt are a nasty shade of red and purple._

_But he doesn’t want to see the others._

_He’s tired of seeing bruises._

_He’s tired of being sore._

_He’s tired._

_When Anders puts Ty down for his nap later, he ignores Mike on the way back to his own bedroom. He tries not to notice the guilty look in his big brother’s eyes as he takes in the belt marks on his arms._

_He doesn’t want to feel sorry for Mike._

_He feels sorry enough for himself._  
  


* * *

 

  
Trying not to let the memory of Mike’s betrayal infiltrate the wall he’d put up between himself and his emotions, he listens to Mitchell clattering back down the stairs. He can’t help but flinch slightly; does he have to be so loud about everything? 

“Everything ok?” Mitchell asks, brow quirking as he approaches, unsure of what bad memory he’d unintentionally managed to provoke. Unsure that he even wants to know.

“Yeah. What’s that?” Anders points to the bundle over Mitchell’s arm in the hope that he’ll just drop the subject.

Mitchell doesn't really want to let it go but he can hear the almost desperate note in the question Anders just asked that indicates he probably should.

_It’s apparently the theme for the day,_ he thinks dryly.

“Here,” he says instead, handing over a jacket, “I got this for you to wear. I know it’s sunny but it’s still kinda cold out.” Mitchell neglects to point out that actually it’s freezing out and once again Anders wasn’t wearing a coat when he showed up. Although by this point, Mitchell can’t really ignore the fact that it’s fairly obvious that Anders doesn’t _own_ a coat.

Mitchell watches Anders holding it up in front of himself. _Maybe I’ll just ‘accidentally’ forget to ask for it back. Maybe…_

“I’m not wearing _that,_ ” Anders sneers, his nose wrinkling as his eyes rove over the jacket.

_Maybe I should just stop assuming things._

“What’s wrong with it?” Mitchell asks, bewildered by the disgust on Anders’ face.

Anders just looks back at him in disbelief. “It’s…” _Purple? Disgusting?_ He realises with daunting horror what he was about to say, how ungrateful that sounds, how mad Mitchell no doubt would have been. He coughs, clearing his throat. “It’s great.”

It still comes out as a squeak.

“You know, if you sounded even less convincing I might believe you,” Mitchell replies sarcastically,  still looking at him quizzically. He tries to keep his tone light-hearted, but he can’t help feel a bit defensive. He _likes_ that jacket. He’d picked it up in a thrift store in Brighton back in ’81, and it’d been with him ever since.

Of course he doesn’t realise until a moment too late that Anders only heard the defence in his statement instead of the joke.

_Fucking hell._ _Think before you speak Mitchell, for Christ’s sake._

He can practically hear his mother’s voice echoing in his head, repeating the one lesson that he’d never seemed to be able to grasp on to, always escaping him like a fine mist.

_Yeah, except now it’s coming back to bite me in the ass._

The fond memory is broken by the sight of fear in the frame of the boy before him, and he can’t help but wonder how many times he’s going to watch Anders’ flinching away from him just because he can’t keep his mouth shut. Sighing, Mitchell leans forward, reaching out to gently lay his hand on Anders’ shoulder. He hopes that he’s getting used to the soft touch; is starting to learn that Mitchell’s not going to hurt him.

“You know I was kidding, right?” he says softly, watching the doubt flickering behind the green flecks he’d never noticed in Anders’ eyes before. “It’s okay, I know I’m not exactly gonna be winning any fashion awards anytime soon.”

He watches Anders’ mouth twitch, suppressing a smile that Mitchell finds he’s desperate to see on his face.

“I guess I can’t really blame you…” Anders starts, glancing up at Mitchell, testing the waters to see how far he can tease before Mitchell snaps. But the only thing he sees reflected back at him is Mitchell’s stupid grin; the only thing he feels is the squeeze Mitchell gives his shoulder before releasing it, spreading a surprising warmth through Anders’ side despite the chill of his hands.

He still thought it was odd, how cold Mitchell always seemed to be, but he’d reasoned with himself in the quiet moments at school where he was free from doing anything except acting like he didn’t exist, that maybe everyone felt like that. It wasn’t like he’d been touched by all that many people in his life, and he was usually more focused on not getting blood on his clothes than he was on the temperature of the fist heading towards him.

Drawing reassurance from the glare of Mitchell’s smile, _God doesn’t that make his face hurt, smiling like that all the time?_ Anders decides to take the plunge.

“I mean, you don’t own a mirror, so how would you know how awful your clothes are, right?” he asks with a small, sly grin, looking up at Mitchell as he says it.

Mitchell stops dead. If he wasn't so shocked he’d probably muse over the paradoxical notion of that statement, but as it is, he finds himself frozen as Anders words wash over him, clogging all rational thought.

_How could he have forgotten about the damn mirror?!_

His mind races as he tries to think of an excuse, a reason to explain this first oddity of his eccentric life. He never wanted to have to do this with Anders, to have to lie to his face when all he’s been doing is trying to get Anders to learn to trust. But there’s nothing else he can do, and he feels a new weight pitting in his stomach as he realises that despite everything, this friendship, this companionship, whatever this thing with Anders _is;_ it will be yet another glass house for Mitchell. Another fragile relationship built on unstable foundations, that will shatter at the slightest slip of his hand. The mirror’s just the first crack. It’s only a matter of time before the rest breaks and falls to pieces around him.

Once again, it takes him too long to catch up. Too long to capture the spark on Anders’ face as he truly jokes with Mitchell for the first time, too long to catch a hold of it and light it into something resembling _happiness,_ before it’s crumpling in front of him.

It’s as he’s stood there, contemplating the instability of the architecture of his life, watching the grin fall from Anders’ face to be replaced by a look of barely concealed _fear,_ that he realises that he’s not the only one just waiting for the illusion to fracture. And he realises that in his stupidity, he’s the reason Anders has that look on his face; that look that Mitchell promised himself he would never put there. That look that he only just got rid off after the jacket comment.

Sighing, he reaches up and runs a hand through his hair, dragging it across his face in the childish hope that when he uncovers his eyes again he’ll be 30 seconds in the past and Anders will still be grinning up at him.

He’s not, of course.

_Fuck_.  
  


* * *

  
Anders knows he’s gone too far now, and the voice in his head is positively seething.  _How could you be so_ stupid?  _Mitchell’s definitely going to be mad now._ The ever present ache in his chest throbs slightly as hurt courses through him, and he curses himself for having hoped that maybe Mitchell might actually laugh at his joke, might actually have gone along with it. Hoped someone might actually have laughed at something he said, rather than just at him.

He ducks his head so he won’t have to see the look of anger on Mitchell’s face. He feels regret welling up in his stomach, mind racing to figure out a way to make sure Mitchell knows he didn’t mean to offend him. He’s so caught up in his mind, avoiding Mitchell’s face, that he completely misses the look of shock give way to remorse.

He stiffens when he feels a warm weight on the back of his neck, flinching slightly as memories of fingers pressing and leaving bruises in their wake flood his mind. This is different though, this feeling, it’s… _soft_.

Anders frowns, the downward spiral of his thoughts stalling when he realises that Mitchell’s looping a scarf around his neck. He waits for him to stop before he runs a hand along the material at the front. His fingers trace the coloured pattern, and even though instinct is telling him it’s going to clash something awful with the dreaded purple jacket, he can’t truly bring himself to care. Not when, for the first time this winter, he’s actually starting to feel _warm._ It’s almost unsettling in its unexpectedness, and as he lets his hand fall he notices that Mitchell’s still holding the other end of the scarf.

It’s as if Mitchell is trying to walk the gap between them, building a bridge out of thread and yarn as he goes.

Anders stares at him.

“Can I…?” Mitchell’s hand waves in a wild gesture that Anders assumes means he wants to wrap the scarf around him properly. He considers for a moment, unsure of his footing. He thought Mitchell was mad, but he just seems… concerned. Anders isn’t used to the shift from anger to concern. He’s confused over the fact that there doesn’t seem to be any anger at all. Wrath, he can deal with. It’s the look of worry in Mitchell’s eyes that has him stumbling on the rope, teetering between _trust_ and _run_.

Bewildered, he nods, looking away to the side as Mitchell ever so gently winds the scarf round his neck, taking care not to pull it too tight, but to not leave it so loose it won’t keep the cold air out.

Anders allows the hands to work around his neck, feeling his skin crawl at the close proximity they are to his throat. He’s pretty sure Mitchell wouldn’t choke him, but for a brief second, he almost feels like the fabric of the scarf is being wound too tight; feels his lungs burn and his throat constrict and it’s all too tight. And the hands fall away. Never actually touching his skin. And he realises he can breathe again.

Maybe he can trust. Anders clenches his fists and forces his body to relax. _No, not yet_.

When he’s done, Mitchell’s takes a step back and holds out the jacket for Anders to thread his arms into. It’s a bit big, but Anders is used to that.  All of “his” shirts are too big for him.

Hands pull at the zipper on the front of the jacket. Metal catches on fabric and teeth and Mitchell has to give it a little tug to realign the zipper properly. The motion jolts Anders’ brain into overdrive again, fearful that he managed to fuck up somehow in the span of less than a minute. He ducks his head forward, protecting his face, when he notices the smell on Mitchell’s scarf. He lets it ground him, lets it make him feel safe, even as his mind is screaming at him to get away from the hands that are zipping up the jacket, the hands that are too close. Hands are for hurting, not for smoothing out coats and tucking in scarves.

Nodding as if in satisfaction at Anders’ new level of appropriate winter layers, Mitchell finally notices the confusion on his face. Behind the uncertainty, Mitchell can still see the lingering look of uneasiness Anders always seems to wear every time he perceives himself as having made a mistake. It makes Mitchell feel guilty. He wishes he could just tell Anders that making fun of him won’t get him beaten. But he’s sure, with a sickening lurch of his stomach, that this is _not_ the case where Anders comes from. Instead he smiles softly down at him, hiding the sadness he feels growing even deeper.

“I thought you’d think I was weird,” Mitchell mutters with a tiny shrug, and Anders can’t help but feel a bit irritated at the way he just trails off. As if that’s supposed to explain what the hell just happened. He bites his tongue before he can say that; knows he’s already pushing his luck enough.

“What do you mean?” Anders asks instead, feeling the security of words he knows can’t be misconstrued easing the jackhammering of his pulse.

Mitchell tries to ignore the sound of blood thumping through Anders’ system, not for want of quelling the bloodlust that’s long since gone to bed, but for the sake of wishing Anders didn’t feel so unnerved by him. He sighs, knows he should elaborate, but still not convinced Anders is gonna buy it.

“The mirror. Or, the lack of one I should say,” Mitchell smiles sheepishly, “I just… freaked out a bit because I thought you’d think I was weird.” He watches Anders hesitate, as if wanting to reply but still unsure whether he’s allowed, still unsure if Mitchell’s actually angry with him or not. “I mean, my clothes _are_ awful,” Mitchell continues, gesturing at himself and then at Anders as if by way of explanation, “I’m not upset that you said that or any-”

“I already thought you were weird,” Anders blurts out.

The words are out before he can stop them, rushing forward and spilling out into the space between them. The words fall into that divide between them, falling down the gap. They echo on their way down, snagging on all the threads Mitchell is trying to build towards him. Anders wants to reach out and grab them, stuff them away along with all the other mistakes he’s already made today.

_Joe’s right, I do have a stupid mouth._

Mitchell’s dumb laugh echoes through the hall, that stupid grin causing his eyes to crinkle in that strange way that Anders still isn’t sure if he finds irritating or…

_No. It’s just irritating._

Anders feels warmth spreading through him at the sound, warmth that he knows isn’t being brought by the clothes he now wears. Warmth that kindles and starts to chase away the echo of his father’s words. He shakes his head at Mitchell, hiding his own small smile in the scarf as he turns to open the front door.

“Come on asshole, those records aren’t going to buy themselves.”

Mitchell gallantly chooses not to point out how red Anders’ ears have turned as he follows him out the door.  
  


* * *

  
“So, how’s school?”

Anders turns to look up at Mitchell out of the corner of his eye as they make their way down the street, eyebrow quirked in that almost cocky way of his. “Seriously?” he says, tone rich with sarcasm, “What you don’t want to talk about the weather first or anything?”

Mitchell huffs out a laugh, grateful that Anders’ shorter stature means he won’t notice the absence of his breath clouding in the cold. Despite the sunny day he can still feel winter’s cruel bite, but he’s glad he gave Anders his scarf in his stead. _Christ knows the kid needs it more than I do._

“Well, I don’t know, guess it’s just a normal thing to ask right?”

Anders doesn’t really know much about _normal._ He knows enough to know that he and his family aren’t it though.

“Yeah I suppose,” he replies, gnawing on his lower lip again to bite back the questions he wants to ask. He doesn’t want to ask too many and risk annoying Mitchell, but his mind is bursting with so many he doesn’t even know where he’d start.

“School’s alright I guess,” Anders gives a little shrug when he realises Mitchell is waiting for him to answer his question. “We just started reading The Grapes of Wrath in Lit class. I already read it a few years ago, but it’s nice to reread books sometimes,” Anders peeks up at Mitchell just as he glances away. Anders wishes he could read the expression on his face, but he can’t see it now that Mitchell’s eyes are back on the road.

_Smart kid_ , Mitchell can’t help but think. _Or just desperate to live anyone else’s life but his own._ Mitchell tries to sigh as quietly as possible, his own heart breaking at the thought. He wonders if Anders will continue without prompting, so he stays quiet for another moment.

“Algebra is pretty interesting?” his voice is more of a question and Mitchell can just feel the worry radiating from Anders as he voices his own opinion. The broken pieces of his heart crumble further. He just _knows_ Anders has been hurt before for doing something as simple and harmless as mentioning his interest in something.

Mitchell hates math. He never really understood how x and y could equal a specific number or the process behind why. He never enjoyed finding out what equations could add up to and what they could equal when they were divided and taken apart. He never enjoyed math.

But he can’t bring himself to tell Anders so. He wants to validate his interests and if he voices his distaste for something Anders clearly likes, he knows Anders will immediately shrink back into his shell and chastise himself for even thinking something so stupid.

“I was never really good at math,” Mitchell tells him, “but, I always wished I could be.” He’s not quite lying and not quite telling the truth. He sees Anders look back up at him, taking in every word, picking and pulling them apart one by one just to make sure he hadn’t upset him.

“Bit sad when basic subtraction is a challenge for me,” Mitchell gives him a little smile, watching Anders’ lips quirk a little in their own. He watches blue eyes sparkle as something no doubt snarky readies itself behind Anders’ teeth.   

Mitchell watches him bite it back and swallow it down in an effort to be polite. Or, more so, in an effort to keep himself from getting hit.

“You can’t be that bad at math. No one is that bad at math,” Anders glances up at him, weighing his words and their offense.

“You’d be surprised,” Mitchell gives him another grin, watching Anders’ eyes trace over his lips and up to his eyes to see if he’s lying. Mitchell feels his stomach twist at the way Anders has to rove over every inch of his body before he lets his shoulders relax a little.

“Mmm,” Anders turns away, shoving his hands in his pockets. They must be cold.

They walk in silence for a moment, the conversation between them seeming as dead as the trees around them. Mitchell isn’t sure what to say, and Anders left him with nothing to go on.

He turns his eyes back on Anders just in time to catch him burrowing his chin deeper in the scarf, hiding the pink tip of his nose in the fabric as a strong breeze blows towards him.

Anders noses at the scarf, enjoying the warmth it provides. And the _smell_. He wishes he didn’t notice it, but the smell of Mitchell is woven into every strand of the fabric. And his cheeks flush a light shade of pink as his mind decides for him that it smells _good_.

Anders hopes he can play off the embarrassing blush on the bitter winter wind.

Mitchell bites his lip to keep from smiling. When he realises it’s a losing battle, he turns away to hide the grin he can’t stop.

It’s possibly one of the cutest things he’s ever seen.

Mitchell shakes his head. He wants to keep Anders talking. He wants to keep him from closing himself back up behind the walls of his own mind that he thinks must protect him.

“It’s your turn,” Mitchell tells him, watching Anders slowly, reluctantly, lift his face out of the scarf.

“My turn for what?” he quirks an eyebrow, his mind obviously left to wander.

“To ask me a question. I asked you one. Now ask me,” Mitchell gives him a gentle grin, encouraging him when Anders looks hesitant. “Anything you want,” he baits.

Mitchell can practically hear the wheels turning in Anders’ mind as he looks away, wrinkling his nose as he thinks. Mitchell waits patiently, mentally going through his armada of cover stories so he doesn’t slip up again, should Anders ask a question that could compromise him in some way.

“So, what is your job exactly?” Anders asks nervously.

Mitchell can’t help the snort that follows, eyebrows raising as he gently, _ever so gently,_ nudges his arm against Anders’.

Anders goes stiff next to him, but Mitchell ploughs onwards, letting his amusement bleed into his tone. “Seriously, you want to waste your question on that?” he teases.

Anders looks concerned for a moment, but the bright grin on Mitchell’s face has him relaxing slightly as the corners of his own mouth twitch. He shrugs one shoulder. “Guess it’s just a normal thing to ask,” he replies, timidly imitating Mitchell's irish accent, heart pounding as he waits for Mitchell to realise and punish him for it.

But Mitchell just throws his head back and laughs, the sound cutting through the winter air. Anders smiles ever so softly, ducking his face back into the warmth of the scarf to hide it, not realising that the dent of his dimples was still giving him away.

“Okay, seriously though, I know that’s not what you really wanted to ask,” Mitchell says, grinning down at him, “come on, ask me what you like, I don’t mind.”

Anders minds though. He knows the consequences of asking the wrong thing. And more than that, he doesn’t particularly want Mitchell asking questions he doesn’t want to answer, either. But none of that changes the fact that he’s been bursting with questions ever since he first went to Mitchell’s house, that his natural thirst for answers has been slowly chipping away at him with every encounter.

He tries to sort through the wave in his mind, knowing that as soon as he opens his mouth it’s all going to come blurting out. He just can’t help himself. A few stray leaves that have not yet succumbed to the winter drift down towards the ground in front of them, and it’s this that opens the floodgates.

“What’s your favourite season? Do you have a car? Why is your front door yellow? Is that your favourite colour? ‘Cos you’re wearing a red shirt but this scarf is blue and this jacket is purple and -”

“Woah, slow down kiddo,” Mitchell cuts across, chuckling. “One at a time, yeah?”

Anders blushes furiously, hoping again that Mitchell will just put it down to the wind on his face. But Mitchell can smell the blood rising, see it painting a stain on Anders’ cheeks, and he can feel his own eyes softening with fondness at the sight.

“My favourite colour is green,” he begins, trying to sift through the barrage of questions he was just hit with. Anders barely covers a snort at that.

“I know it’s kind of a typical Irish thing to say, but, it does remind me of home. And I feel like green has the most shades, you know?”

“Green _does_ have the most shades. The human eye can see more shades of green than any other colour.” Anders replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Oh, well… Really?”

Anders rolls his eyes, relaxing ever so slightly into the conversation. “Yes, really.”

Anders wants to say something about the biology and evolution of the human eye. He wants to mention the way the rods and cones work, how green is the center of everyone’s range of color. He wants to tell Mitchell about the way humans evolved on a planet, rich with green colors from the sun and photosynthesis. He wants to tell him that humans see more shades of green because of what _lurks_ in those bright and dark greens of the trees and forests and jungles.

But the last time he gave an answer to a question that was not truly asked to him, he walked away with a busted lip and a sore jaw reminding him to keep his mouth shut.

So he does.

“Ah. Okay, well, the front door was yellow when I moved in, I keep meaning to paint over it but I kinda like it now. My favourite season is winter, I don’t really feel the cold. And yeah I have a car, but I never drive it to be honest with you; I like walking, the store and my job are both close by, and I don’t really go anywhere else.”

“I like it too.” Anders comments quietly.

“What? My door, or walking?” Mitchell asks.

Anders had meant the door. That yellow door that he was beginning to think meant safety, a ray of light on a dark day.

But Mitchell didn’t need to know that.

“Walking. I like walking. It’s nice. Quiet.”

Mitchell nods, “That’s why I like it too.”

He lets the conversation peter out, knowing that it is unlikely he’d get Anders to share much more. It’s not awkward this time though, both of them lost in their own thoughts as they meander down the street in the direction of the park. Mitchell’s grateful for it, for the small victory he feels in getting Anders to actually talk to him, and he feels an almost positive step leaking into his stride.

_Today was going to be a good day._  
  


* * *

 

  
It’s the sound that pulls Anders from his thoughts.

The sound of swings swaying in the wind. The squeak of a chain that has long since rusted, well overdue for a touch up. He knows that noise. Feels it deep inside of him; high pitched groan rattling his bones as if the wind itself were blowing him back and forth.

He _hates_ that noise.

It takes him only a few short seconds to realise where they are. His eyes fly from the empty swings to the small playground equipment. The metal is rusting and the paint continues to crack and chip away by the day, color faded and forgotten. But it still looks exactly like he remembers it.

The spot he’s looking for is right beneath the slides. He doesn’t want to look. He knows it’s still there. But he can’t keep his eyes from immediately finding the tiny area, mostly hidden from anyone passing by.

Or anyone looking for someone.

The memories come flooding back faster than he can stop them. Faster than he can keep them from drowning him.

But it’s impossible to stop them and he feels choked as the panic rises in him yet again.

He’s starting to feel humiliated with the amount of panic attacks he keeps having in front of Mitchell. He knows how pathetic he must look, rooted to the pavement and staring uselessly at the park in front of them. And in public, no less.

Anders feels awful for embarrassing Mitchell like this. His only solace is the fact that not many people seem to be out today. But it’s hardly a consolation prize when his blood is turning to ice, freezing him deep to the core. His heart races hard to try and push it through his veins.

“Anders?”

He can’t hear him. His name is lost in the constant shrieking of swings, and his own memory screaming even louder over them.

Mitchell stares at Anders for a moment, his eyebrow drawing up in confusion before he takes a look at his eyes. They’re glassy and far away, no longer here in the present. Not like they had been while Anders was telling him about his brothers and him listening to his parent’s record. But after, when he had trailed off and shrugged away the bad taste in his mouth.

It’s with a horrifying realization that Mitchell recognizes the look not from earlier today, but from earlier this week, when Anders was apologising to Mitchell for ruining his book.

For the second, _third? fourth?_ time today, it was a moment of comprehension dawning seconds too late. _Jesus Mitchell, all the signs had been there,_ he thinks to himself with a curse. Anders growing quiet and dragging his feet and falling behind. They were all signs that something was bothering him, but Mitchell had been so caught up in his own excitement that he hadn’t even stopped to think about making sure that this was what Anders wanted too.

Mitchell forces himself to look at those hazy blue eyes, so lost and empty. His stomach churns at the worrying thought that one day he might just lose Anders to his ocean of suffering. In the back of his mind, he wonders how Anders hasn’t already drowned in the depths of it.

Anders stares ahead at the park, his body beginning to shake from more than just the cold breeze. It was cold that day, too.

Mitchell returns to his side, waiting beside Anders for a moment before taking a step forward, hoping it will encourage Anders to move forward too.

A tiny hand darts out and snatches his, so quick and unexpected, Mitchell barely has time to register the way it trembles in his loose grip.

“Can we go somewhere else?” Anders asks him, still staring at the park.

Mitchell knows he’s no longer seeing it anymore. Not this version right now, anyways. Whatever is causing Anders to panic, Mitchell is sure it has something to do with this park. He doesn’t have time to let the sick feeling overtake him; not with the pathetic words Anders whispers up at him, voice breaking like a twig being unmercifully snapped in half, just to be tossed on a fire much too big for it.  

“Please, can we go somewhere else? Please, Mitch.”

Mitchell feels a flood of warmth run through his body at the sound of his name falling from Anders’ lips, only for it to be immediately replaced with a cold, bitter feeling. His name is tainted with the sound of fear and distress. It wasn’t given to him; it was stolen in the moment while Anders is too lost in his mind to brace the walls he’s built around it.

_It’s not fair._

Anders shouldn’t be panicking over a park. _He’s a kid for fuck’s sake!_ He should feel safe here. He should _want_ to be here. Or he should at least get irritated that Mitchell thought he was still young enough to enjoy being at a playground.

Instead, he’s reliving yet another painful moment he never deserved to live through the first time. Let alone again. And fuck knows how many times he’s endured a plague of panic every time he has to walk by a goddamn park.

_How many times am I going to fuck this up?_

It may not be Mitchell’s fault that he’s panicking in the first place, but he damn well should have just asked if Anders wanted to go the park. He could have been so much more comfortable panicking in the safety of the kitchen, rather than out in public where Mitchell knows he must feel so exposed. _Or just not panicking at all,_ he can’t help but think bitterly, guilt starting to eat away at him.

_No_.

Mitchell takes a breath and squeezes Anders hand slowly. He cannot let himself be lost in his own sea of thoughts, when Anders needs him to be his boat to guide him back to shore.

“Yeah. We can go. Let’s go,” Mitchell takes another step, but Anders continues to stand still, unmoving and unchanging, as if he only option left in the world is to turn to stone on the pavement and let the snow and rain slowly turn him into dust to be blown away in the wind.

“Anders, _come on_ ,” Mitchell says a little louder, trying to penetrate through the fog. Keeps his voice soft so if he hears him, Anders will know Mitchell isn’t mad at him for this.

But Anders can’t hear him anymore.

The swings are so loud _._ They’re _so fucking loud_.  
  


* * *

_  
They’re passing the park when Anders feels a little tug on his sleeve._

_“Anders?”_

_“Yeah, Ty?” he stops walking and looks down at his little brother._

_“Can we stop at the park? Just for a moment?”_

_Anders glances over at the empty playground, then back down at Ty. It’s cold today. The wind isn’t too bad right now, but it’s still enough to sting his skin where it’s exposed, already giving a burning hint to the how cold tonight would be once the sun finally sets._

_It’s already getting dark out and they really need to be getting home._

_“I don’t know,” he bites his lip, hitching his backpack up a bit higher. “We really shouldn’t.”_

_Ty’s eyes fall from Anders’ face, his shoulders slumping forward in dejection. He looks so defeated, Anders can’t stand it. Ty should be able to play at the park. He should be able to be a normal kid. They all should. Anders shouldn’t have to tell him no. And right now, as much as his mind screams the word so loudly he swears it’s coming from his mouth, he just can’t make himself say it._

_“Alright, but only for ten minutes, okay?” he says instead, watching Ty’s head snap up, his eyes wide in disbelief._

_“You mean it?” His lips break into a huge grin._

_“Yup. Better get to it. Ten minutes starts now.”_

_Anders nods towards the park, watching as Ty breaks into a sprint to get to there faster so he doesn’t waste any of his minutes. His excited shout is lost in a loud gust of wind, but the echo settles in the air after a few seconds. A shiver runs down his spine as he makes his way towards the playground, veering off towards the swing set._

_He tests the chain on one of the empty swings, before sitting down on the seat. His feet don’t quite touch the ground, leaving his legs dangling awkwardly in the air. He lets out a small sigh as he looks down at them. He wonders if he’ll ever grow any taller._

_With a quick glance around, Anders slings his bag from his back and into his lap. He tugs at the zipper carefully, knowing it’s going to break any day now. Once his bag is open, enough, he slips his hand in and digs around until his hand touches what he’s looking for. He pulls out the book he’s been engrossed in for the last two days. He doesn’t get a lot of time to read at home. Now seems like a good enough time to get in a few pages. He’d like to finish it before Saturday._

_After all, no good ever came from returning a library book late._

_Anders opens the book in his lap, letting his mind sink into the comfort of its words._

_“Suppose you went under and your mask filled all up with water and you couldn't get to the top in time? He was choking and sweating. He tried to push down his panic. This was Leslie Burke's favorite hobby. Nobody would make up scuba diving to be their favorite hobby if it wasn't so. That meant Leslie did it a lot._

_That she wasn't scared of going deep, deep down in a world of no air and little light. Lord, he was such a coward. How could he be all in a tremble just listening to Mrs. Myers read about it? He was worse a baby than Joyce Ann. His dad expected him to be a man. And here he was letting some girl who wasn't even ten yet scare the liver out of him by just telling what it was like to sight-see under water. Dumb, dumb, dumb._

_‘I am sure,’ Mrs. Myers was saying, ‘that all of you were as impressed as I was with Leslie's exciting essay.’ Impressed. Lord._

_He'd nearly drowned.”_

_Anders is just contemplating the words on the page, how he feels about them, and what they mean to him, when he feels a tug on his sleeve. It’s followed immediately by a loud sneeze and a louder sniffle.  His mind pulls from the haze of the book; realizes he’s read two chapters and it’s almost completely dark around them now. There’s a dull ache in the back of his eyes from where he had been staring hard down at the book and he’s overwhelming aware now that more than ten minutes have passed._

_He’s screwed._

_Anders shoves the book back into his backpack and hops off the swing as fast as he can. He reaches out for Ty’s hand and grabs it so he can pull him along quickly. He tries not to notice how cold his little brother’s hand is. It feels like ice in his own, and he knows his are plenty frozen._

_Ty sneezes again and Anders tugs him along, trying to speed him up and get home as fast as they can. His body starts to shiver violently, and he wonders if it’s from the cold of the wind starting to pick up, or from his fear of where the wind is blowing him, biting bitterly at their heels as if it had the mind to urge them on as well._

_“I don’t feel very good,” Ty whines up at him, trying to keep pace with his big brother. “Slow down… please?”_

_Anders bites his chapped lipped, torn between appeasing his brother and saving himself. He slows to a stop and adjusts his bag before he motions Ty closer._

_“What?” he sniffles louder, his eyes drooping a bit._

_Anders knows Ty must be starting to feel tired and hungry. Knows he must always feel tired and hungry, like the rest of them._

_“Come on. I’ll carry you,” Anders tells him, reaching down to pick his little brother up. Anders hoists him up with a grunt. He’s honestly getting too big for this and, well, Anders never seems to grow._

_“I can walk,” Ty protests quietly, but his heart really isn’t in it and he allows Anders to lift him all the same, his little fingers feeling even icier where they cling to Anders’ neck._

_“Aren’t you cold?” Anders asks after he takes a few steps and fixes Ty’s position the best he can. As he’s moving him around, he realises his brother isn’t shaking or shivering at all. He’s torn between finding it strange and being immensely worried he has hypothermia._

_“Not really,” Ty shrugs in his grip, knocking his shoulder gently against his brother’s jaw. Anders quirks a brow but says nothing._

_He feels frozen to the bone himself._

_Maybe Ty is just lying for his big brother’s benefit._

_Anders’ teeth clack together as he continues for the next few blocks. He’s only has two more blocks to go, but he already feels so heavy with the weight of his brother and the bite of the cold does nothing to speed him up. He knows he’s already so late. He’s going to be even later if he doesn’t hurry._

_But it’s so hard to hurry. He’s so cold, and Ty weighs almost as much as he does now._

_Not that it’s a weight he’s unwilling to shoulder. He will carry his brother home every day if it ever comes to it._

_His house finally comes into view from the top of the small hill. Anders lets out a quick sigh, but the relief is short lived. The walk alone had been difficult all on its own._

_But now the real hard part begins._

_“Ty, we’re here,” Anders whispers into Ty’s ear, afraid that the sound of his voice will summon the monsters from inside. He gives his brother a little shake and listens to the sleepy whine he makes._

_Ty places his feet on the ground as Anders slowly sets him down, his muscles groaning in protest. He’s going to be sore tomorrow. Then again, he’s sore almost every day. It’s an ever-present pull that never seems to go away. Maybe if he could just have a day or two to rest and heal._

_But that’s wishful thinking, and he doesn’t believe in making pointless wishes._

_Tiny fingers shoot out and wrap around Anders’ hand before he can shove it in his pocket. The touch startles him and he almost pulls his arm away, but the way Ty’s fingers squeeze around his stops him. He holds his little brother’s hand up the drive, glancing down at the stony neutral expression on his face._

_Ty is probably just as nervous as he is._

_Anders sags a little. Ty shouldn’t have to be nervous about going home. None of them should. But what can he really do about it?_

_Anders knows there’s not a hell of a lot he’s able to do about it, so he does the only thing he can do. He draws his shoulders back up, keeps his face calm, and his feet steady. He tries not to fumble with his key in the door. He doesn’t want Ty to see how nervous he is. How scared he is to go inside._

_He knows he’s fucked up majorly today by losing track of time. Something he’s usually really good at avoiding, hyper-aware of how much time is passing day by day. And yet, it somehow feels so much slower than it should. As if every minute is an hour, every hour a day, every day a month. He feels so old, sometimes. Like he’s lived a thousand lives, when he’s hardly even lived the one he has._

_What little he has of it, anyhow._

_The door creaks so loudly as he pushes it open, announcing all of today’s mistakes to the entire world._

_He’s home so late. Ty is exhausted and Anders thinks he might be coming down with something. Quite possibly exacerbated by the cold and Anders’ negligence. The second he steps inside, feels the constant tension that lingers in their house, he considers walking right back out the door; considers running the very second his feet can hit the pavement._

_But where could he really go?_

_He has no friends. No one cares about him, or what is waiting for him behind the closed doors of the place he’s supposed to call home._

_There’s nowhere for him to go, so he closes the door behind him; locks himself inside his own prison cell._

_A traitorous thought of hopeful thinking passes through his mind._ Maybe everything will be okay today.

_Maybe today would be the day everything will go back to the way it used to be. The way it was before his dad wasn’t as angry. When he rarely hit them. When his mum still had enough love in heart for all three of her boys. Before Mike decided to take after their dad and use Anders as a way to blow off steam._

_Before Anders had opened his stupid mouth and started asking the questions that buzzed around his skull so often, they threatened to spill out of his mouth at any given moment._

_The ones that made his parents hate him, more than they already seemed to._

_The first time he had asked his mum about her garden in the backyard, he was five years old and just learning the difference between annuals and perennials, words he couldn’t really even pronounce yet._

_The tiny watering can sloshed around in his hand as he tried not to spill it while watering the beautiful flowers finally blooming in the spring sun._

_“Mum, how do you keep the garden so good? Our garden at school isn’t as good as yours. And I haven’t seen you outside in a long, long time.”_

_He can’t remember anything else from that day. Just the way the flowers had smelled, and the look his mother had fixed him with. The sour taste it gave him felt so strange among the sweet scent of the violets and hyacinths carried on the light breeze._

_It was the first of many times she would look at him like that._

_“I do my gardening while you and your brother are at school, Anders.”_

_He can still remember the very first time his father had hit him. It was mostly his fault. He had been eavesdropping on a fight his parents were having. One about their cousin Olaf staying too long, yet again. It was a common argument for them to have after Olaf had taken off, leaving them with no food and sand all over every possible surface._

_But this time, he heard his mum say something that he thought sounded strange._

_Anders was sure he had just heard wrong when the muffled words of_ your father _were quietly hissed at her husband. Anders knew he must have misheard._

_Later, when he was dwelling on what he shouldn’t, he had come up with the solution that his mum must have been talking about his grandpa. He had always wondered if he would ever hear anything about him or meet him. Other kids had grandparents. He was sure he had to have some too._

_So instead of waiting for his parents to bring it up at the right time, he had sought his father out. He found him in the garage out back, a beer growing warm as he was attempting to fix the car for the third time this week. They couldn’t afford a new one, so he had refused to give up hope. Anders should have recognized the tension in his shoulders, but the smile on his face when he saw his son seemed genuine to him at the time._

_He still remembers the exact question he had asked._

_“Dad, did grandpa come to visit?”_

_Still remembers the look his dad gave him, how similar it was to the one his mum had._

_“Who told you that?”_

_He should have made up a lie. Turned around. Offered to get his dad a fresh beer. Instead he dug himself the first of many holes he would find himself digging. Or maybe it was the same hole. Digging deeper and deeper with a dull shovel. Growing wider and deeper, getting farther and farther from the light and the surface. Sometimes, Anders felt like he was digging his own grave._

_“Mum said something about your dad while you were fighting and I-”_

_The slap to the face startled him, his words falling short and dying in his throat. His eyes watered from the stinging of his face and the sharp pain in his chest that thrummed through his body in confusion over what just happened._

_“You’d be better off forgetting what you heard,” his dad sneered at him, his hand tightening around the wrench in his hand. “Now go on. Get out. I’m busy.”_

_Anders didn’t need to be told twice. His hand cradled his face as he ran from the garage. He was determined not to cry. He couldn’t cry. Crying was weak. And for girls._

_He made it to the little tree in their backyard before he broke. Tears flooded down his face and he can still recall how shame tastes. Salty and bitter and like words being swallowed down and strangled into silence._

_Thinking back, the light smack to the mouth seems so tame now. It hadn’t even left a bruise._

_Now he’s riddled with them._

_Maybe if he had learned to keep his mouth shut sooner, he would have saved himself a lot of abuse over time. He knows better now. He just can’t seem to find a way to show his parents that he’ll never ask another question again._

_But he knows there isn’t one. No amount of silence and apologies and obedience can save him now._

_And things will never be okay again._

_His dad is too far gone in his anger; his mother in her apathy. And now they’ve both been pulled deep into the sea of their addictions, dragged deeper by the day, down into the undertow._

_Ty follows him through the door and in the light Anders can see his nose is running and his cheeks are so bright red._

_He looks sick._

_It makes Anders feel sick._

_One look around the living room tells him that his parents must be somewhere else. The house remains silent around him and a tiny shred of hope swells in his chest._ Maybe they’re not even home. _His mind races to formulate a plan. If he can get Ty into the bath right now, they won’t know they were outside all this time. They won’t know Anders and Ty were at the park, when Anders should have been home an hour ago to start dinner and clean up the living room._

_Olaf is apparently coming to stay for a few days, though Anders knows that when Olaf comes he usually stays for more than a few days._

_Not that Anders minds. Whenever Olaf comes around, their mum usually takes off and stays anywhere else that isn’t their house; now completely overrun by all their testosterone. Which means Anders has one less person to worry about pleasing._

_Not that he can ever please her, anyways._

_His dad is usually too distracted by Olaf to notice Anders. And even when he does notice him, his cousin always seems to linger around him. Maybe it’s his way of protecting him. Not that Anders really needs him to._

_But the best thing about Olaf, is how nice he is to Ty and Mike. He’s even nice to him, which Anders is sure he doesn’t quite deserve, but he takes the attention no less. It’s nice to pretend that Olaf likes him, even if he is just doing it to be polite._

_He hopes Olaf stays for at least a few weeks this time he comes around._

_Anders doesn’t have time to dwell on it, though, if he wants to get Ty into the bath before his parents come home. He drags his little brother along, not even giving him the chance to kick off his shoes. All he has to do is get him in the tub. He can make up a little lie that Ty had made a mess that he had to clean up. That he would have to start dinner late because he had to bathe him first._

_He knows his mum won’t hit Ty or yell at him for making a mess. And she’ll protect him from their dad’s anger._

_He’ll just have to figure out a way to make it up to Ty for throwing him under the bus like that. But he’s sure promising him to play with him an extra fifteen minutes every night for a week will probably persuade him to go along with the white lie._

_But just like every time he thinks things might work out for him, it comes crashing down around him._

_He’s turning down the hallway, heading towards the bathroom when his parents’ bedroom door opens._

_He hears their voice before he sees them. The sound makes his heart stop for a second, before slamming against his chest as it speeds back to life._

_He feels like a rabbit caught in the snare of two wolves. Two very hungry wolves; jaws snapping and snarling for a chance to rip into his flesh._

_“Where the hell have you been?”_

_Anders hears the words. Can’t tell whose mouth it came from. Realises it doesn’t matter who's pissed at him more. He’s going to get yelled at, no matter what. He’s going to get hit. And there’s nothing he can do about it. He can’t lie. He can’t tell the truth. Can’t do anything._

_Can’t do a goddamn thing._

_He always fucks up. No matter what he does. He’s so useless. He knows he should have just told Ty no._

_Maybe if he hadn’t gotten lost in his book like an idiot. He knew better than to start reading. He should have sat on that swing, counting the seconds ticking by._

_Like he’s doing now._

1, 2, 3, 4….

_A tiny noise behind him pulls him from the haze of his self-deprecation long enough to remind himself that Ty is still here. He glances back at him, taking in the fear on his face.  He has to be strong for him. He doesn’t have time to break down._

_Anders tucks Ty behind him as he turns back towards his parents, putting himself between their anger and his little brother. It’s all he has left that he can do; being Ty’s shield as much as he can._

_Taking hits. That might be the only thing he’s actually good at._

_And he just can’t let Ty get hurt. Not the way Mike let him get hurt. He knows he can’t protect Ty all the time. He can barely protect him_ most _of the time._

_But if he has a chance to keep him from getting hit by their dad, he can’t let Ty down. He can’t let himself down. He needs to be the brother Mike was supposed to be._

_The sounds of footsteps getting close to them hurtles Anders’ brain into overdrive. He has to think of some kind of lie. He needs to switch his plan, since this one has failed. His mind rushes to try and come up with a story believable enough._

_But this is all a game of chess. They’re standing there, him and Ty against their parents. It’s his move first, and if he can move the pawns just right, he knows he can have fighting chance. He needs to move the knights and rooks perfectly without taking time to hesitate. Dance around the board, keep the bishop moving. Always go after the king._

_And always,_ always _keep an eye on the Queen._

_After all, she’s the most dangerous piece in the game._

_His mind quickly supplies him with the word ‘detention’, and Anders takes it and swiftly start to weave a web of lies around it, desperately hoping it will be enough to keep Ty safe. He knows it’s not enough for him. Detention alone is a punishable offense._

_“I’m sorry, I—”_

_But before he can get out anything else, a tiny voice squeaks from behind him._

_“We were at the park down the street!”_

_Anders hands clench into fists. His heart hammers against his chest. No, this was not how it was supposed to go._

_“You were out fucking around, when you knew you had chores you needed to do?”_

_“I’m sorry, it was only supposed to be for a few minutes,” Anders doesn’t even know why he’s defending himself at this point. He should just let it happen. Let his father take out his anger on him._

_“You call an hour a few minutes?”_

_“I… I got distracted.”_

_“_ Clearly _, you got distracted,” his mother chimes in, pushing passed Joe to get to her youngest son._

_Anders instinctively takes a step back, guarding his little brother from her. Sure, his mother may not hit or manipulate Ty the ways she does with him and Mike, but he knows that will change one day._

_He knows one day she’ll find herself bored with Ty. She’ll get a new favorite son, or hate them all the same. She’ll let their dad have at Ty like he’s some kind of chew toy, worn and useless, no longer interesting for her to play with. No longer loved._

_“What the hell were you so distracted by?” his father rumbles over his mother’s voice, now murmuring soothing words down at her son._

_Anders can’t say his book. If he says his book, he won’t be allowed to go back to the library anymore. And it’s really one of the only places left he feels safe. Books are one of the only things left that give him some tiny shred of comfort in his life._

_“My homework. I got distracted trying to finish up some homework,” Anders fibs. He keeps his eyes level and tries to keep the guilt out of his tone and eyes._

_Ty sneezes again and his mother grabs his hand and starts pulling him down the hallway. “You’ve gone and made your brother sick, letting him stay outside so long,” she glares at him as she guides her son down the hall. “Let’s get you into the bath and warm you up.”_

_Anders doesn’t like his mom. But he’d rather not be alone with his dad right this second. At least she provides some kind of distraction when she isn’t egging her husband on._

_“So instead of coming home and doing your homework, you decided to do it outside while you let your little brother get sick?” Joe takes two steps towards him._

_“It wasn’t that bad out when the sun was still out… And I just wanted him to have a little fun,” Anders swallows. He knows his voice has gone weak now. It’s over. There’s nothing left that he can do. Nothing he can say will appease his father. “I didn’t mean for him to get sick. I just wanted to get my home-“_

_A hand darts out and grabs his chin. “You think I don’t know when you’re lying to me?”_

_His breath smells like alcohol again today._

_It seems like each week that passes, his dad starts feeding his addiction earlier and earlier._

_“I’m not lying,” Anders moans as the hand squeezes at his skin and bones. It hurts. He knows the tips of his dad’s fingers are leaving tiny little bruises as he gives his jaw a rough shake._

_“See, that right there,” his dad snarls at him, “that smart ass look you get in your eyes. That’s how I know.”_

_Anders feels betrayed by his own body._

_A hard slap to his face doesn’t let him dwell on it much. The second one hurts. The third one is almost enough to make him numb to everything else._

_“Fine. You like the park so much,” his dad spits down at him as the hand reaches out and grabs at the collar of his shirt. “Why don’t we just go back out there, then?”_

_“Dad, wait,” Anders groans as he’s yanked forward, stumbling down the hall to keep up with his father’s footsteps._

_“I need-”_

_“The only thing you need,” Anders’ dad yanks him harder across the living room and towards the front door, “is to keep your goddamn mouth shut.”_

_Anders groans as his collar is let go. He doesn’t have a chance to feel relieved as a huge hand encircles his wrist, fingers crushing his already ruined bones. Panic starts to bubble in his stomach. The grip keeps him from having a fighting chance at running. He’s caught in the trap, arm locked in the jaws of the wolf. He still has to try though._

_He can’t give in._

_He has no idea what his dad is going to do outside, but at least in here, he’s somewhat warm and in relative enough safety. He can keep an eye on Ty and keep him safe from the same treatment he receives. If he can just break his father’s hold, he can get away from him and find a place to hide. A small space to wedge himself in that his dad can’t fit into. It’s the only thing he has to thank his many missed meals for._

_The chance to hide._

_As his dad wrenches the door open, the blast of cold air hits him in the face. It stings his skin more than the harsh slaps had. His body floods with panic._

_“Dad, wait! I’ll do extra chores!” Anders tries to bargain with him, knowing it’s completely useless. He’s going to have to do them anyways, but the fear’s icy grip on his throat is making him say stupid things. “I’ll do all the chores and make sure Ty goes to bed on time and I’ll make whatever you want for dinner. I’ll do whatever you want. I-“_

_The back of his father’s hand meets his face with a sickening sound of skin on skin, lingering in the room around them. The force of it is enough to send Anders sprawling to the floor, his weight dragging him down like a stone in water._

_He screams._

_Screams so loud he can’t hear the sound of his dad’s hand anymore. Can’t hear the harsh shout of his father over his own pain, crying out for everyone to hear, like a wounded animal._

_Screams so loud he can’t hear the pattering of feet running down the hall._

_But all he can hear is the sound of every fiber in his arm being torn and shredded from bone. Pain radiates from his shoulder all the way down to his fingers; a thousand tiny knives stabbing into every joint and muscle and nerve._

_“Get up!”_

_Anders tries. He tries so hard to get up and follow orders. But his arm hangs lifeless next to him, tingling and heavy and as useless as the rest of him._

_A hand darts out and grabs him by his shirt, hauling him to his feet. The blood curdling shriek is just as unsettling as the one before it; the one still echoing in his ears. An oil stained hand grabs him around the mouth, fingers crushing his jaw as it silences him._

_He tries to breathe around it, but every stuttering breath is like fire in his lungs, burning him from the inside out. His chest muscles tug at his ruined shoulder, forcing him to choke down another cry of agony._

_Anders doesn’t think he’s been this injured in a long time._

_Just as the hand leaves his mouth, he’s yanked forward again._

_Anders lets out a pained groan and his dad wheels around, hand already raised. “I told you to shut your mouth!”_

_Anders braces for the smack, but tiny words reach his ears before the hand has a chance to slap him._

_“Leave him alone!”_

_Anders opens his eyes, watching in horror as Ty launches himself at their father. “Leave Anders alone!” he shrieks as his tiny hands wrap around their father’s arm. “Let him go!”_

_“Ty, get away from him!” Anders’ warning comes far too late. He feels his dad letting go of his shirt, watches as one long, powerful swipe of his hand dislodges his youngest son and sends him to the floor. Ty crumbles under the pain, his voice so pitiful as he starts to cry._

_Fingers thread into Ty’s dark hair and Anders swallows around what he knows will come next if he doesn’t try to stop it. After all, he’s watching what gets done to him on a near daily basis play out right in front of his eyes._

_But Ty is so young. And he doesn’t deserve this. Not the way Anders does._

_“Don’t touch him!” Anders is up faster than his body wants to allow him. But his pain is nothing to him. Not when he knows what Ty will feel if he doesn’t save him from this._

_“Stay out of this,” his father turns to growl at him, before turning back to Ty._

_“You think you’re tough? Standing up for your piece of shit brother?” their dad spits down at Ty. His hand reels back so fast and slaps Ty right across the face. Anders can’t get to them fast enough. He tries, but it’s just not enough._

_Ty cries out in pain, his whole body shaking in their father’s grip._

_“Dad, wait! Don’t-“_

_“And you. I don’t know how many times I’ve told you to shut your mouth. I’ll get to your punishment next,” their dad glances back at Anders, eyes narrowed in anger, pupils dilated from the alcohol feeding his rage._

_“Don’t punish him!” Ty shouts up at him, trying to yank away from the iron hold on his hair. Anders knows what’s going to come out of his mouth before it even forms on his tongue. God, how he wishes Ty could just learn to know when to keep his mouth shut. Just like Mike has. Just like he has. “It’s not his fault! I made him do it!”_

_“Fine. You want his punishment?” their dad nearly laughs in amusement._

_“Yes!” Ty screams with the next slap to his face._

_“Well aren’t you a fucking saint.”_

_Anders has a single spare second to wonder where their mom is when Ty actually needs her. And hopes his little brother will remember this one day. Just like all the times before, when his mom started to protect him less and less._

_But he can’t let himself dwell on it. It’s useless. And it’s eating the precious little time he has to save his brother. Even if he can only save him a few minutes of this suffering._

_“It’s not his fault! He’s covering for me!” Anders rushes forward as fast as he can, grabbing his dad’s sleeve with his good arm. “Punish me! It’s my fault!”_

_“Tyrone?” their mother’s voice calls down the hallway, three heads snapping up at the noise._

_Their dad lets go of Ty with a forceful push, shoving him down hard to the floor. “Looks like it’s your lucky day,” he sneers down at him before finally wheeling back on Anders. “Now where was I with you?”_

_Anders is grabbed around his collar and dragged forward towards the door yet again._

_“It’s okay, Ty. I’ll be okay,” Anders whispers as he’s forced past his little brother crumpled on the floor._

_Teary eyes bearing the look of defeat Anders knows all too well are the last thing he sees as their mother’s voice beckons Ty over into the arms of false comfort._

_One day, they will no longer be a place of safety. They will be a cage. Steel and strong and unbreakable._

_Anders prays that day won’t be any time soon for Ty’s sake. Prays it will never come._

_He knows God isn’t real. But if there was a chance that he was, he hopes this will be the one prayer he’ll take the time to answer._

_It’s hard to keep pace with his father’s quick legs. The second they’re out in the cold night air, his dad only seems to speed up, clearly desperate to get out of the cold._

_Anders can only hope this will be over quick. The night is particularly cold for winter, especially with the wind raging and snapping against their faces like whips. The quick glimpse Anders manages to get of the sky shows looming clouds, threatening to blanket the world in snow._

_The holes in his shoes would not thank the weather for that at all._

_The park nears ahead and Anders feels almost a sense of relief. It’s a strange thing to feel relieved from, but he’ll take what he can get. If his dad wants to beat him in the middle of the park and drag his ass home, he’ll be more than happy to get to the dragging part already._

_“Since you love the park so goddamn much,” his dad’s voice penetrates the bitter silence of the world, bringing Anders’ frozen mind back to the present. “You can stay here all goddamn night.”_

_Anders’ body floods with icy water, threatening to both freeze and drown him at the same time. “Stay… all night?” he repeats dumbly. His tongue is too thick for his mouth. The words aren’t registering. Surely he can’t…_

_His dad doesn’t reply to him, just lets go of his shirt and turns around to head back the way he came. Anders feels like a lost dog when he starts to follow after him._

_“Are you fucking deaf?” his dad turns quickly to the sound of footsteps. The hand that knocks him to the ground is the least of his worries when his shoulder is knocked around. He had nearly forgotten the pain in the adrenaline of trying to protect his brother. A guttural scream pierces the air and echoes through the night, just tempting someone to come find him. Come and save him from this life he’ll never be able to break free from._

_But that’s just it. He’ll never be free. No one will come. No one will save him from this._

_His dad stares at him for a second as Anders shivers in a pile on the ground, tears starting to leak from his eyes._

_“You’re pathetic.”_

_It’s the last thing his dad says before he tucks his hands into his pockets and spins around to head home._

_“Dad, wait!” Anders calls after him, trying to pretend he doesn’t hear the weak break in his voice. “Don’t leave me here…”_

_He doesn’t turn around to look back._

_Anders chest heaves with sobs his wishes he could hold back. Wishes he could blame on his shivering. Wishes he wasn’t shivering at all._

_Tears start to flow freely from his eyes as he tilts his head back. They’re like ice on his face, the vicious wind making them just the more obvious to him. As if he needed another thing to remind him how weak and useless he is._

_His eyes open against the wind. They scan the sky for a break in the clouds. Just one small glimpse above the surface and into the stars. He can’t begin to hope for a shooting star. But one right now wouldn’t be such a bad thing._

_Not that his wish would ever be granted._

_Not like he deserves a wish at all._

_Anders takes a deep breath to quiet the sobs he’s trying not to make._

_First things first, he has to get his shoulder back in the socket. He’s not sure how, but he’s going to have to try. It feels lifeless as he tries to lift the affected arm and far too painful for him to even consider trying to move it on its own._

_He places his left hand on his right elbow, weighing the limp limb in his palm. How can something so small and fragile feel like it weighs more than an entire universe?_

_Slowly, he starts to rotate his arm, biting back each scream that tries to bubble in his throat and spill out of his mouth._

_With some extremely painful movements and a horrifying sound, Anders thinks he’s popped the joint back in. Thinks the pitiful yelp of pain must be from anyone else but him._

_Anders stands up just as the first flake starts to fall._

_As if his night needed to get any worse right now. As if his life needed to be this awful to begin with._

_The snow picks up speed as Anders makes his way over to the swings. He sits down on the frigid seat, legs dangling above the ground. His body resumes shivering once more, his knobby knees knocking together. The clattering of his teeth sounds so loud to him._

_Maybe if he just stays in plain sight of the road, someone will walk or drive by and take pity on him. He knows he’s not supposed to talk to strangers or get in their cars, but honestly. Could it be any worse than this?_

_For a moment, Anders thinks about slinking back home, tail between his legs with a beg on his lips for forgiveness._

_But he won’t beg._

_He will never beg his father for mercy._

_Anders hops off the swing and starts to walk down the pavement. He only has a few dollars in his pocket, but if he goes to the diner he knows that’s not far from here, he can stay there at least until they close. It’s not much and he hates when people stare at him. But he won’t last the whole night out here if he stays put now._

_The bell chimes on the door. Anders’ own alarms tinkering in his mind. He’s been in here once or twice with Mike. But he hopes they won’t recognize him and call his parents._

_The waitress looks at him, eyes taking in his disheveled appearance. The old bloodstain on his shirt. The mottled bruises on the skin left exposed. His tear stained eyes and running nose._

_“Are… are you lost?”_

_Anders blinks up at her. Doesn’t know how to answer._

_He feels so lost. As if he’s drifting in the middle of the ocean. As if he’s stuck on a life raft that’s slowly running out of air. He can’t see land. He doesn’t even know if he’s near it. And one day, the raft will deflate, leaving him left in the middle of the ocean to drown._

_He thinks he can almost feel the salt of the sea water burning his lungs when he takes a breath._

_“No. I’m…” his mind quickly turns._

Chess board, Anders.

_“I’m meeting someone here. Can I have a seat for two, please?”_

_She looks him up and down once more._

_“I have money.”_

_Her shoulders sag a little as she nods. “Okay. Come on.” She grabs two menus out of the bin and two rolls of silverware before leading him towards the back of the small restaurant. Anders is grateful that there’s only one other person in the diner tonight, and they don’t even look up as they pass._

_She’s about to sit him near the window, when Anders freezes up a little. “No! I’m-“ he feels his cheeks flush in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. Can I get a seat away from the window? Please?”_

_She stares at him for yet another painful ten seconds, before she lets out a sigh and nods. “Yeah, okay. We’re not very busy tonight as you can clearly see. It’s pretty cold out tonight.”_

_Anders just nods, not trusting himself to speak after that humiliating outburst. Once she leads him to the very last table in the house, tucked in a small alcove away from the window, Anders calms down a little._

_“So can I get you anything while you wait?”_

_“Um,” Anders looks over the menu for a second, hoping he’s not taking up too much of her time. “A water to drink, and…” Everything is so expensive and he doesn’t really want to waste his lunch money here. Well, what little of it he has. “What… What’s the soup of the day?”_

_“Hmm,” the waitress taps the pen to the order pad for a second, before looking back down at him. “Chicken noodle, I think.”_

_“I… I’ll have a bowl, please.”_

_“Sure.”_

_Anders feels a sense of relief when she finally leaves him be. He feels exhausted from the night. His shoulder throbs and aches and his stomach is still turning over and over. He doesn’t exactly feel hungry, but he knows he has to order something in order to stay._

_He has no idea how he’s going to make one bowl of soup last three hours._

_Anders isn’t sure how he manages not to get kicked out. Maybe the waitress can’t be assed to deal with him. Maybe she feels sorry for him._

_But that doesn’t stop her from coming to the table at nine o’clock on the dot._

_“It’s closing time,” she tells him, a hint of something in her voice that Anders can’t quite place. She almost sounds like she’s_ apologizing _to him._

_But he knows that can’t be true. She hasn’t done anything wrong. And he certainly doesn’t deserve being apologized to._

_He just nods and stands up from his chair, wincing as the motions tug on his arm. “Thank you,” Anders looks up at her for a moment before looking back down at his scuffed and worn shoes. He walks towards the door, trying not to notice how much snow has fallen from the giant window to his left._

_As his hand hovers on the door, her voice stops him from pushing it open right away._

_“I’m. I’m sorry that they didn’t show.”_

_Anders glances back at her, then back towards the door with a shrug. He’s glad he’s turned away; able to hide the pained wince the habitual movement forces him to make to keep from groaning._

_“It’s for the better they didn’t.”_

_He doesn’t look back as he pushes the door open and steps out into the cold night. His lungs feel like the freeze shut immediately._

_How had it managed to get_ even colder _in the course of just three hours?_

_His pockets do hardly anything to protect his hands. And his shirt even less to protect his chest and stomach._ But it’s better than nothing, _he reminds himself as he starts to trek through the few inches of fallen snow on the ground._

_The park somehow seems even more sinister than when Anders had left it. It’s quiet and empty and feels like it’s looming over him like an angry shadow. The snow has blanketed everything in a stark white. It almost hurts to look at it._

_As Anders approaches the spot his father had left him at, his heart skips a beat when he realises he’ll be able to see if anyone had tried to come find him while he was hiding out at the diner. If there are any footsteps in the snow, even if they’re old, there’s a chance his mom yelled at her husband and forced him to come back for Anders. Or maybe she came back for him herself._

_But his heart drops heavily into his stomach when he reaches the spot. Not a single track disturbs the perfect white snow. Not even the prints of a stray animal._

_So no one cared enough to fight for him._

_Anders presses his fists against his eyes, willing himself not to cry. He already knew they didn’t care. He knows that. The cold must be getting to his head. Making him think stupid thoughts. Not that he doesn’t think stupid thoughts without the wind there to throw them all back in his face._

_Anders tries to remember what school taught him about frostbite and hypothermia as a distraction. He’s going to have to stay out here for at least the rest of the night. At least until a shop opens. Or maybe he could go back to the diner. Maybe he could sneak home. But he’ll worry about that later. Right now, he needs to find shelter from the wind. Ideally somewhere he can curl up that isn’t wet from the snow._

_But he also wants to stay by the road. Maybe his mom was just waiting for their dad to go to bed before she comes to get him. But Anders knows better. He knows as sure as the wind is bitter and cold._

_No one is coming for him._

_If he wants to survive through the night, he has to find shelter._

_Anders moves quickly enough to generate some heat, but not fast enough to make himself sweat. If he sweats he’ll lose heat faster when it starts to cool. After a few circles around the park, the little tunnel seems like may be his only option. It’s on his fourth turn around the playground that he spots the tiny space right between the ground and the bottom of the steps leading up to the slide. It’s concealed from the wind and the sidewalk. If he had discovered this spot any other time, Anders would have been thrilled to have a place to hide himself from anyone looking for him._

_But now, once he crawls beneath the steps, he won’t be seen. If anyone even comes looking for him._

_But he knows. They’re not coming. And the temperature is still dropping._

_Anders crouches down, trying to avoid getting his jeans wet in the snow as he slips underneath the steps. While the ground is hard and freezing cold, Anders finds that the dirt is mercifully dry. The space is just enough for him to sit up in, if he tucks his head to the side._

_The wind can’t reach him here, and he can’t help but feel immensely grateful and relieved to be out of the constant sting of the wind whipping against his face and body. For a moment, Anders lets himself regret giving Ty his tattered winter coat. But guilt consumes him less than a minute later. It’s not Ty’s fault. He hadn’t even asked for the coat. And Anders could handle the cold. He didn’t want his little brother to have to suffer any more than he already does._

_Out of the wind, Anders shivering subsides a little. It’s not as cold in the little area he’s tucked into, with his body heat trapped around him in the tiny space. It does little to keep him warm, but it’s better than nothing._

_His dad usually leaves right before sunrise for work, and he’ll be able to slip into the house unseen. He thinks maybe, he can last until then like this, if the temperature doesn’t drop any more than a degree or two. He just has to hold out until then._

_An hour passes and Anders body is trembling so hard, he feels like he’s going to make the entire playground rattle with his bones. The wind blows even harder, whistling so loudly in the silence of the night. It threatens to blow everything over and Anders is afraid he’ll blow away right with it._

_He tries to will his body to calm down, to stop shaking so hard. But it only seems to shiver harder in an act of sedition against his pleads. His entire body hurts. Where it started as a sting and a dull burn just an hour ago, it now feels like he’s grinding his bones to dust from his attempts to keep warm._

_Anders doesn’t think he’s ever known a colder night in his entire life._

_He keeps his fingers balled tight into fists between his thighs to keep them from getting frost bitten. His chin is tucked into his chest and his legs are up as close to his body as he can get them, trying to keep his body heat in his core._

_Another half hour passes and his skin feels like fire again. Feels like he’s being consumed by flames, searing through his skin and into his muscles._

_But how can fire be this cold? How is he burning alive and, yet, freezing to death at the same time?_

_Maybe this is what everyone means when they say “fire and ice”._

_Anders wants to rip his skin off. Rip off the burns and the bruises and the cuts and scars. He wants to tear his skin right off of his ugly bones._

_His shoulders and back ache in time with his heartbeat from the position he's forced to stay in. It thrums fast at first, but steadily begins to get slower and slower with each degree the temperature drops._

_The minutes tick by like hours._

_Anders keeps his ears open for any sound of anyone coming near the park. It’s hard to hear over the wind, but if he focuses hard enough, he thinks he can strain his ears over the sound of branches whipping together. Maybe a police officer on patrol would wander by, or maybe his mom would finally come to take pity on him and grant him mercy._

_Even if he hasn’t earned it, even if he doesn’t deserve it. He’ll figure out how to make it up to her._

_If she could just hurry._

_She’s not coming for you, his mind whispers in his ear, words crueler than the cold._

_She would rather let you die than fight for you._

_Anders body shakes a little less as the thought surrounds him. His teeth clack quietly in his mouth, a few trembles still wracking through him. But he’s starting to feel less cold. Maybe the temperature is rising. Maybe he’s just stopped caring._

_Who could blame her for not wanting to fight for you?_

_There’s nothing special about him; nothing about him worth saving._

_No one loves him._

_And he really doesn’t deserve it anyways._

_His eyes slowly start to feel heavy. They droop shut and he groggily peels them back open. His body is starting to feel strangely warm, the fire subsiding now into a nice blaze._

_He doesn’t shiver at all._

_Somewhere vaguely in the back of his mind, a warning bell rings. He knows feeling warm means he’s becoming hypothermic. That tiny part of his mind screams at him to fight. Screams at him to get up and hurry home and take the beating he’s bound to get. But he almost feels peaceful out here, now that he’s no longer cold. And the feeling is so rare to come by. Perhaps it’s not so bad? Finding a little solace, some peace of mind in this desperate situation?_

_The cold has completely left his bones and Anders slowly starts to uncurl from the little ball he tucked himself into. He knows he shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t, but he can’t stop himself when he lowers his body to the cold ground, laying his head against the dirt._

_The wind is still shrieking away, but it sounds so much quieter now. It sounds like his ears have been stuffed with cotton. He can barely hear it at all._

_The world feels like it’s starting to fall away from him. Everything sounds dull and his body feels so numb. It’s a strange feeling, but he no longer feels a single trace of the cold. And is that honestly such a bad thing? Not to feel so frozen anymore?_

_Really, he feels so warm and comfortable._

_Anders isn’t sure what time it is. It can’t be midnight yet, he hasn’t heard the church bells chiming off the late hour. He wishes there was a clock nearby. It must be sometime after eleven, he thinks._

_He’s sure, that any minute, his mom or Mike will come looking for him._

_He thinks they might, at least._

_As what feels like another slow hour ticks by, Anders blood is starting to feel sluggish in his veins. He’s sure it’s freezing to ice inside of himself._

_Maybe it was only ten minutes that past. Maybe it was only a single minute._

_Anders feels like he’s been here for so long. His body starts to shiver violently again. It hurts. It hurts so much. He would think shaking this hard would help generate some body heat, but Anders only feels colder. It makes him feel more lost as his body grinds his bones to dust inside of him._

_When his body just can’t shake anymore, Anders lies limp on the ground._

_He tries to keep his eyes open. From his safe little hiding spot, he notices he can see the pavement that runs along the park._

_He was pretty sure someone would have come for him by now. They have to know that if he stays out here another hour, he’s going to get some serious frostbite._

_Which is probably the least of anyone’s concerns. If he lost a few fingers and toes, what did it really matter to them? He’s already so, so ugly. But if he stays here all night, he not going to live through it. He won’t see sunrise. He won’t get to sneak home. He won’t get to say goodbye to Ty or Mike._

_He won’t even get to finish the book that got him into this mess._

_It’s an irrational thought, and Anders almost smiles at himself and his stupidity._

_He knows his parents hate him. And that Mike hates him. And that one day Ty will hate him too. And there’s not a single soul on this planet who actually likes him, let alone loves him._

_But that didn’t mean they wanted him to die, did it?_

_The clock strikes midnight, the bell rings and echoes through him as if he, himself, is standing in the tower and tolling the last remaining moments of his life._

_One single, solitary note._

_Anders thinks he only has one more hour left in him._

_No one is coming for him. He is going to die out here._

_Alone and afraid and shivering and so cold, and maybe that’s a fitting way to die, he thinks. He’s always so cold and alone anyways._

_Anders wonders how long his body will be left here. How long he will lay beneath the slides until someone got curious enough to come look for him._

_Maybe forever._

_It has to be past midnight now._

_The world is completely silent as the snow begins to pile up. It drifts around almost beautifully._

_Anders thinks it’s weird he can still see the beauty in this night._

_He can’t keep his eyes open any longer. They’re shutting of their own accord, and fighting to keep them open is just too much for him. He knows he shouldn’t let himself fall asleep. That once he’s asleep, it will be over for him._

_But what reason does he even have to hold on anymore? He wants to believe that there’s a reason for him to keep fighting. He wants to believe he has a reason to live._

_Is this life even worth living? This life where everyone who’s supposed to care about him is more than willing to just let him die alone in a park, huddled under a slide. Where every day is a constant battle to keep himself and his brothers safe. Where he has to tiptoe and balance on broken glass, think everything over ten thousand times before he opens his mouth, sits when he’s told, stands when he’s told, lets himself get beat within an inch of his life when he’s told. Where he gives up everything for everyone until he has nothing left for himself._

_This life isn’t worth fighting this hard for._

_Anders curls up a little tighter. He doesn’t want to give up. He knows it’ll make him look weak. But his entire body is pushing for him to give in._

_And the world seems to be pushing him too._

_He can hardly breathe anymore with how frozen his lungs are._

_Anders lets his eyes slip shut. He takes a shaky breath and lets the frost start to dull his mind._

_Footsteps have his heart thundering to life. It takes all of his strength to open his eyes and lift his head up._

_Someone is finally coming for him._

_He’s not going to die._

_Anders tries to focus his hazy vision on the pavement, watching as a figure comes into view._

_But it’s too tall. Too tall to be Mike or his mom. And definitely a man. And he doesn’t look like his dad either; too thin. And the way that they’re walking on past the playground, Anders is sure it’s a stranger._

_But maybe they could help._

_Maybe they could save him. Get him somewhere warm. Or help him get home. He’s not supposed to talk to strangers, but if he’s going to die anyway…_

_Anders opens his mouth to shout. He knows he can’t drag himself from his spot. His only choice is to yell to the man and hope he’s not a murderer. Or that he’ll care enough to help him._

_But when Anders goes to speak, his voice is frozen in his throat. He tries again. Nothing comes out. A puff of air and silence._

_The universe must be laughing at him._

_Never in his life has he tried to ask for help. And the one time he finally lets himself._

_He tries one more time, with the only sound leaving his mouth a high pitched squeak that sounds nothing like ‘help’._

_Anders feels so betrayed as he hopelessly watches the man move out of earshot._

_It’s over._

_His only chance and he found a way to blow it._

_Anders lays back down against the ground, his heart starting to slow once more. It’s the only thing he can feel in his numb body, and once it slows to a barely there thud, that starts to fall away too._

_He lets his eyes shut once more and takes a breath. There’s nothing left for him to do but wait out the night. Maybe he’ll make it sunrise._

_Anders knows he won’t._

_But there’s no reason to let it worry him into a panic attack as his mind starts to drift off, sleep coming for him fast and hard._

_God knows, he’s had more than enough for this lifetime._

_And hopefully the next._

_He takes another breath, drags his weak arms as close to his body as possible. It’s not much, but it feels almost like a hug goodbye._

_It’s enough comfort for him and he finally lets himself slip into unconsciousness._  
  


* * *

  
“Anders? Anders can you hear me?”

Mitchell had given up tugging on Anders’ hand the moment he realised that Anders had already left him and the park behind. A chill sweeps through him as he stares into Anders’ eyes, glassed over and unseeing; filled with more pain and horror than the eyes of even some of his victims. He tries to pry his hand from Anders’ grasp so he can crouch down and do… something. Anything. Anything that’ll stop whatever memory is taking over the trembling boy in front of him. But the fingers only tighten further, Mitchell sure that if it wasn’t for his vampiric strength he’d feel the bones in his hand starting to grind together.

He doesn’t know what to do. Once again, he’s completely lost. Rudderless in the ocean he was supposed to be guiding Anders through. This isn’t like before, in the store, when Anders was panicking but still _there,_ fear rippling out of him for the world to see. This is nothing but a shadow in his eyes, a dark cloud turning cerulean navy.

Mitchell gazes around at the park behind him, trying to pinpoint what could have brought this on, what awful thing could have happened here to make Anders feel this way. He feels the disgust roiling in him as again he thinks of how this shouldn’t be happening, a place meant to be filled with laughter and fun bringing nothing but despair.

He thinks of all the times he’s been in this park, every time he’s crossed it on his way to work or the store, every lunch break he’s spent tucked on the bench in the corner. He shakes that thought away before it can plant the seeds of guilt in his mind. It’s too late to wonder what could have been now.

A sharp gust of wind rips through the park, swings creaking on rusted chains, and it’s this that pulls Mitchell’s attention, the way Anders’ breath hitches at the sound and the fingers grip his even tighter. And he knows then, that it’s something to do with the playground in the corner. The playground meant for children far younger than Anders is now.

_When did this happen?_

Swallowing around the bile in his throat he crouches to the side of Anders, pulling his little hand with him as he does so.

“Anders buddy, we need to go okay?”

Mitchell feels his own panic starting to build when Anders doesn’t even reply, doesn’t even register that Mitchell is right there and talking to him. The swings grate again, and Mitchell swears softly under his breath at the little whimper that escapes Anders at the sound.

He does the only thing he can do in that moment, knowing that maybe Anders will hate him for it later, but if it means he never has to hear that pained sound again then it’s a price he’s willing to pay.

He leans forward, forcefully pulling Anders hand out of his own before quickly wrapping his arms around him and picking him up.  
  


* * *

_  
The house is silent as Mike slides into it. He creeps from the front door to his bedroom and eases the door open so he doesn’t wake anyone. After shutting the door, Mike turns around to check to see if he woke Anders._

_Mike’s heart races._

_Anders isn’t in his bed._

_He wheels around to check his own bed, hoping he just crawled into the wrong one. But Anders isn’t there, either. His stomach churns as he sneaks back out of their bedroom and creeps down the hall towards Ty’s room. He just must have fallen asleep in there. He must have been reading to Ty again and drifted off like he sometimes did._

_But the only person in his little brother’s bed is Ty. Mike feels his stomach contract. He knows Anders wasn’t on the couch. And the bathroom light is off. He can’t be outside._

_Tonight is so cold._

_Mike hurries over to Ty’s bed and shakes his little brother awake quickly._

_“What…”_

_“Where’s Anders Ty?”_

_It takes a second for his little brother to blink awake, but once he does, he bolts straight up in bed. “Mike! Dad made Anders go sleep outside!” he moans pitifully, his hands reaching up to latch onto Mike’s arm._

_“Ty, you have to be quiet,” Mike tells him sternly, before he sits down on the edge of the bed. “Tell me what happened.”_

_Ty fidgets a little._

_“Come on, Ty. You have to tell me.”_

_“I made Anders stop at the park on the way home from school and we ended up staying way too long and it’s all my fault and I’m pretty sure Anders got hurt real bad because Dad did something to him and Anders screamed really loud and then I tried to stop him and he hit me but it doesn’t hurt or anything and I’m so scared Mike!” Ty takes a second to breathe and Mike suppresses the urge to hurry him on._

_“Dad dragged Anders all the way back to the park and left him there and Anders hasn’t come home!” Ty wails again and Mike covers his mouth with his hand._

_“We_ have _to be quiet, Ty. You’ll wake everyone up,” Mike frowns at him, before slowly removing his hand when Ty nods. “What time did this all happen?”_

_“I’m not sure… I think a little past 7?”_

_“What?!” Mike tries to keep himself calm. Tries to breathe. If Anders has been outside for nearly five hour, he could be—_

_No. Anders isn’t dead. Anders can’t be dead._

_“You stay here. You stay here and you stay_ quiet _. Don’t wake up_ anyone _. You stay right here, Ty,” Mike commands as he stands up and steps away from the bed. “Don’t you dare go wake Mom up.”_

_Ty swallows and nods, grasping at the blanket over him._

_“I’m going to go get Anders. I’ll be right back. Stay here.”_

_Ty doesn’t make a move to get up and Mike closes his door behind him. As the latch clicks, Ty feels the tears fall from his eyes. It’s all his fault._

_The night is cold as Mike trudges as quickly as he can through the snow on the ground. He can’t believe Anders has been out here for five hours. All night he had this terrible feeling that he kept trying to push away. Fuck, he should have just went home._

_Mike reaches the park just as the wind picks back up, whipping his hair around and threatening to blow him backwards. It’s almost as if the wind is telling him to leave. As if it’s warning him of what he might find._  
  
_Mike feels sick._

_Anders_ can’t _be dead._

_Mike knows they don’t get along anymore. He knows he can be mean to Anders sometimes. But he doesn’t want him to_ die _. He takes in the playground, eyes glancing everywhere in the dark. Anders doesn’t appear to be anywhere in sight._

_The tunnel is empty. The top of the slide is empty._

_Maybe he found somewhere to hold down until morning?_

_Maybe he’s already been found._

_Mike’s stomach threatens to heave._

_He circles the park twice, before he finally spots a tiny, beat up shoe sticking out from the crawlspace below the steps of the playground._

_His heart freezes like the night._

_“Anders!”_

_Mike hurries over, forces his icy legs to carry him faster. He gets to his knees and reaches out to shake Anders’ shoulder. “Anders, its Mike. I’m here. Let’s get you home,” he tells him._

_Anders doesn’t respond. He doesn’t even wrinkle his nose and curl tighter on himself like he always does when he’s trying to fight being woken up. He just moves limply back and forth under Mike’s hand._

_“Oh, God. Anders, please,” Mike’s voice cracks like the wind around him as he reaches his hand to touch his brother’s face. It’s ice on his already frozen fingers._

_“Oh, God!” Mike’s lungs feel like they’re going to explode from the burn of the air in them. His hand moves over his little brother’s neck._

_There’s no pulse under his fingers and Mike’s heart stops too._

_“Jesus, no,” Mike moves his hand over to Anders’ mouth and nose. There’s no feeling of warm breath._

_“Please, Anders. Please don’t be dead. Come on! You have to get up, Anders. You_ have _to. Who’s going to read to Ty and make sure he does his homework? Huh? Who’s going to tell me when I’ve made a mistake on one of my Lit papers? Or read all the whole library? You_ have _to live, Anders. You can’t leave—“_

_The warm puff of breath on his fingers has Mike nearly smacking his head on the bottom of the step as he starts._

_“Anders!”_

_He’s alive._

_Oh, fucking Christ. He’s alive._

_Mike carefully wraps his hands around his little brother’s ankles and slowly pulls him out from the spot he’s hidden in. He shrugs off his beaten and worn coat and quickly wraps it around his brother the best he can. With a grunt, Mike lifts Anders off the ground and holds him as close to himself as he can. He hopes the heat will be enough until they get home._

_He doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to do when he gets home. Anders is the brains of the family. He would know._

_But Anders is completely despondent in his arms; completely unaware of the world around him._

_Mike knows he’s hanging on by one single, frayed and weak thread._

_Mike picks up his speed._

_Getting into the house is easy enough, and Mike only has a second of hesitation before he decides what he has to do. Maybe he remembers something from school. Maybe it’s just instinct._

_He carries Anders into the bathroom and sets him down on the ground as he turns on the water taps. He’s pretty sure the water has to be warm. Not hot._

_He hopes he’s right._

_The pipes shriek as the start to draw water and Mike knows he’s likely going to wake the whole house. Ty is the first into the bathroom._

_“You found him!” he looks at Anders on the floor and back up to Mike._

_“Ty I told you to—“_

_And then he looks down at Anders again._

_Looks down at Anders’ blue lips, at his eyes frosted shut. The snow covering his hair from their journey home. All of the black and purple and red bruises mottling his even paler than usual skin._

_Anders looks dead._

_And it’s a horrifying image Mike wished Ty didn’t see._

_He knows he’ll be seeing it every time he closes his eyes for a while._

_“Is he…” Ty whispers, unable to finish his sentence._

_“No, Ty. He’s sleeping. He’s very cold. I need you to go to my room and get the warmest clothes you can find. Get me lots of warm clothes. And a towel. Can you do that?”_

_Ty is still staring at Anders, completely unable to look away from his brother._

_“Ty!”_

_Ty turns quickly and heads down the hall towards Mike and Anders’ room to do as he’s told._

_Mike checks the water again, hoping that it’s not too hot. It feels like it’s boiling on his fingers and he knows it’s going to feel that hot on Anders’ skin._

_He hopes he stays unconscious until he can get him back to a normal temperature._

_As the tub fills, Mike starts checking his fingers and face, looking for signs of frostbite. They seem okay. A little blue, but they don’t look like a few of the pictures he had seen in health class._

_It’s not much, but it’s gives him a little hope._

_Mike shuts off the tap once the tub is full enough to cover Anders’ body. He turns back to him and starts the task of stripping off his clothing. His shoes come first, followed by his socks. His toes look better than his fingers at least. He’s peeling off his shirt as Ty comes back, a bunch of clothes and towels bundled in his arms._

_There’s old and new bruises all over his body and Mike bites back guilt and bile as it rises in him. His shoulder looks odd and there’s the faint hint of new bruises being formed around it. This must be what Ty was talking about. It doesn’t look like it’s sitting right in the socket and Mike makes a reminder to himself to look at it tomorrow._

_Ty sniffles from where he’s standing, his eyes taking in way too much of Anders’ body all at once._

_“It’s my fault,” he hangs his head, his chin wobbling as tears splash down his face._

_“It’s all our faults, Ty,” Mike tells him, before he quickly pulls Anders’ jeans and underwear from his body._

_He hasn’t given either of his brothers a bath in a long time, but now is not the time to feel embarrassed over how close he is to parts of Anders he rather not be close to._

_It’s a bit of a challenge to haul the dead weight of his brother into the tub. But he manages to get him into the water._

_Right as he’s submerged Anders eyes blink open and a screams so loud it echoes off the tile and bounces around him, surely waking everyone in a mile radius._

_It’s a horrifying sound._

_And he just keeps screaming._

_Mike slaps his hand over Anders mouth._

_“Anders, you have to shut up. Anders… Please you have to—“_

_Their dad slams the bedroom door. “What the fuck is going on?!” he shouts down the hall, already making his way towards the source of the sound._

_“Ty get over here,_ now _,” Mike growls at him, yanking him from the spot he’s rooted in and shoving him down by the tub. “Talk to him. Try to get him to stop!”_

_Ty shakes harder than he ever as a he stares wide eyed at his brother. “Talk to him!”_

_Mike hurries to the door to meet his dad, leaving Anders shrieking behind him while Ty reaches out, hands frozen in midair. “Anders, it’s me. It’s Ty. Please stop screaming? Please?”_

_Mike shuts the door behind him._

_“You have him in there don’t you?” their dad growls in his face._

_“You left him out there to_ die _. He was almost dead when I found him,” Mike glares up at him, refusing to move from his spot._

_Anders is still screaming behind the door._

_“Move,” Joe tries to shove him out of the way. But Mike snaps. He shoves their dad hard against the wall behind him, watching him stumble before catching himself._

_“Leave him alone. Go get back in bed. I won’t let you kill him.”_

_Joe stares at him, shock in his eyes before he straightens up. “You think you’re a tough man, huh?” He reaches out for his son before Mike can answer and grabs him around the throat. “You think that little fuck is worth getting your own ass beat?”_

_Mike’s eyes fly over their dad’s body, looking for weak and vulnerable spots. It’s a terrible idea. But Anders will die if he lets their dad do whatever he’s going to do to him if he doesn’t fight back._

_Before he can rethink his choice, Mike knees their dad in the groin as hard as he can._

_The huff of air Joe makes as crumbles to the ground makes Mike feel sick to his stomach. He knows he’ll pay for it later._

_And for the kick he aims directly into their dad’s stomach. It’s almost satisfying._

_If he knew he wasn’t going to be the new target of the week for it._

_“You fucking leave him alone,” he snarls down at their dad before he hurries back into the bathroom and slams the door shut. He locks it quickly behind him._

_Anders is groaning now, his whole body shaking as he tries to breathe._

_“It’s gonna be okay,” Ty is whispering to him. “You’re gonna be warm and safe and Mike is fighting dad for you and we’ll get you in bed soon and you can go back to sleep and we’ll protect you, okay? You just gotta fight some more, Anders.”_

_Mike watches Ty grimace as his hand is squeezed tightly where it’s submerged in the water to hold Anders’._

_“You can do it,” Ty encourages him, trying to sound stronger than he is. “You’re always so brave. You always get through stuff. You just gotta keep fighting, okay?”_

_Mike moves towards them and gets to his knees. He pulls Anders upright in the bath and frowns at the lack of resistance his brother gives him._

_Anders heaves in breathes of air, trying desperately to put words to his thoughts._

_Everything is fire. He’s melting in the bath. It’s like lava. And his skin is going to boil right from his bones. It’s so hard to tell them this. It’s so hard to speak. He feels frozen beneath the fire._

_A wash cloth moves over his back and he lets out a groan._

_He has to tell them._

_He focuses. Focuses really hard._

_He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He tries again. It’s a jumble of letters and sounds and makes no sense to anyone._

_And then he breathes. Really breathes for the first time. It hurts to even breathe._

_“You’re,” Anders starts, putting his entire effort into his words, “doing it wrong.”_

_Mike looks at him. He looks at Ty and then back to Anders again with a frown. “What?”_

_“You’re going,” Anders takes another painful breath. How is he the only one who pays attention in school? “You’re gonna shock my heart,” Anders manages to get out._

_Mike stares at him for what feels like an hour before he’s quickly hauling Anders from the bath. “Oh, fuck. I’m sorry, Anders. I’m so sorry,” Mike tells him as Ty quickly grabs a towel without being told._

_“’S’okay,” Anders replies groggily as Mike starts wrapping him up in the towel to dry him. “Is Ty okay?”_

_Mike frowns down at him. “You were just talking to… He’s right here, he’s fine,” Mike motions Ty over and Ty leans over Anders as Mike wraps him in another towel._

_It takes a minute to clear the frost forming in his mind as he looks over at Ty. “Joe didn’t hurt you did he?”_

_Ty shakes his head. “No, Mom protected me,” he tells his big brother, his eyes roaming over his face._

_“Mmm,” Anders gives a tiny nod._

_“Anders, you have to stay awake a little bit longer. I have to get you dressed. Can you sit up?” Mike asks as he puts his arm behind Anders’ back and helps him up._

_“Not really,” Anders tells him. But he doesn’t really have a choice. His head hurts to hold up, but he keeps it up while Mike tugs shirt after shirt over his head._

_“Sorry,” Anders mumbles as Mike tugs his brother’s underwear over his hips._

_“There are worse things in the world than seeing your dick, Anders,” Mike shoots him a glance before he starts to pull a pair of jeans over his legs._

_“Like seeing your own?” Anders replies with effort and Mike can’t even believe the little asshole is sassing him even when he’s within an inch of death._

_“Yeah, okay,” Mike rolls his eyes as he pulls a pair of track pants over Anders’ jeans._

_“Thought so,” Anders replies again as his head starts drooping towards his chest._

_“Just a little longer,” Mike tells him as he stands up and bends down to pick him up._

_“I can walk,” Anders groans at the treatment. He knows he can’t. But at least he can pretend it's Mike’s fault that he’s being carried like a baby out of the bathroom._

_“Sure,” Mike tells him. “Ty, come on,” Mike motions for him to follow them down the hallway._

_Anders is already half asleep as Mike lays him down on his bed. He covers him with his blanket and pulls Anders’ blanket off his bed. He drapes that one over his brother._

_“Ty lay down next to him. Keep him warm,” Mike tells his youngest brother. Ty nods and climbs in bed next to Anders, pressing close to him. “I’m going to get your blanket, I’ll be right back.”_

_Mike heads towards Ty’s room to strip the blanket from his bed. It’s the warmest blanket in the house. And it used to belong to Anders._

_When he comes back, Ty is whispering to his brother. Words Mike doesn’t really want to hear. He lies down on the other side of Anders and pulls the blanket over the three of them._

_“Your ass is taking up too much space,” Anders grunts at him and Mike just shakes his head._

_“You’re the worst little brother,” Mike tells him. “You know that?”_

_Anders takes a small breath and finally lets his eyes fall shut._

_“I know.”_  
  


* * *

  
The first thing Anders feels is the arm wrapped around his back. It’s natural instinct that keeps him from reacting, that keeps him from throwing himself as far away as he possibly can.

_Trick number five. Don’t flinch._

It takes a moment for the rest of his senses to catch up, for the gentleness of the arms encircling him to tap it’s way through the fog in his brain. For the lingering smell of smoke and lemon soap to pierce through the haze. He knows that smell, neurons firing and reaching into the dusty corners of his mind to find the receptors labeled _security._

_Mitchell._

He tightens the hand that’s found it’s way onto Mitchell’s shirt, fisting the fabric and trying to ground himself to it, to try and use it as a means of pulling himself away from that dreadful night. Flashes of white and grey keep breaking through, fighting with the haze and trying to take over again.

Anders turns his head slightly so he can bury it in the crook of Mitchell’s neck, ignoring his huff of surprise, ignoring the voice in his head screaming that he’s being weak and pathetic, ignoring the ghost of pain lingering in his shoulder as it tries to claw him back into the memory.

_Mitchell won’t hurt me._ He’s safe here.

He repeats it like a mantra, trying to chase away the shadows with this one thought that he thinks might be strong enough to keep them at bay. This one thought that he wonders if he thinks it enough, he might be able to convince himself it’s true.

Mitchell’s arms tighten around him as if in answer, hitching him up further with an easy grace, and Anders lets himself sink further into the warmth of Mitchell’s jacket, lets himself believe that for once in his life he’s safe, that the hands that are on him are there to _comfort_ and not to _hurt_.

“It’s alright kiddo, I’ve got you,” Mitchell’s voice is light in his ear, soothing as if they’re sharing a secret. “We’re almost home.”

_Home._

Anders isn’t even sure he knows what that means anymore.

Mitchell could almost cry in relief when his house comes into sight, the yellow of his front door almost mocking in it’s brightness. With every minute of Anders’ lack of response, Mitchell’s concern had been growing, unsettled by the easy way Anders was just letting him carry him, with no protest or snarky defensive remark that he’d started to grow used too. He’s been fighting a constant battle against his own thoughts ever since they’d left the park, mind conjuring images of what possibly could have happened to cause Anders to react in this way. Each one he’s smothered before it’s had a chance to light, trying to convince himself that it can’t be so bad as he’s picturing. Deep down he knows that it’s probably much worse.

His grip tightens again, the tiny body offering no resistance. With every readjustment of his hands he keeps hoping to feel something other than _bone._ Something other than the harsh reminder of how thin Anders truly is; the reality of his malnourishment burning into his palms like a brand. Seeing it isn’t the same as _feeling_ it. It’s so much worse. Feeling every bump and knob of his spine, every bruised and battered rib so obvious even under layers of clothes. Anders is so light in his arms that Mitchell has to keep glancing down to check that he’s still there, paranoid that even a gust of wind could tear him away like a paper plane in the breeze.

He shifts his hold on Anders so he can reach into his pocket and grab his keys, turning the lock and nudging the door open with his foot. The creak of the hinge has Mitchell squeezing Anders ever so slightly in reassurance as he lets out another tiny whimper, the sound cutting through the quiet of the hallway and filling Mitchell with remorse.

Less than half an hour ago he’d been fighting to keep a smile off his face at Anders’ look of utter disgust when he’d offered him a jacket. The floodgates of guilt tremble under the onslaught when he realises that it’s also been less than half an hour since his last fuck up. _No. Not now. This is not about you Mitchell._

Anders hears the sound of the door swinging shut. The click of a lock is the first thing he can _actually_ hear since they got to the park. The first sound to register in his mind, louder than the creaking of the swings.

The noise of Mitchell’s keys clacking together as he shoves them back in his pocket rings through the fog in his head. Anders claws at the noise, grabs a hold of it like a beacon of light leading him from the dark of his mind. The haze slowly starts to clear and the sound of Mitchell breathing close to his ear encircles him and guides him the rest of the way to the present.

His senses are assaulted by the strong smell that fills Mitchell’s house. Tea and cigarette smoke and something that’s distinctly Mitchell that Anders can’t quite place. Something he finds pleasant and oddly intriguing.

The heat of the home around him tells him he’s no longer outside. That he’s no longer standing in front of the park anymore. That he’s no longer huddled under the slide, freezing to the death. That he’s no longer in the park on that night anymore.

But he’s not sure if he ever left.

Sometimes Anders wonders if this is his afterlife. If he had actually died that night, and this is what the afterlife is. An eternity of endless abuse and suffering and bruises and broken bones and it’s just so, so cold all the time.

But he knows he didn’t die; knows he’s still alive. Every time he sees his blood spilled onto his clothes, bright and metallic, he’s reminded that he’s still alive. Every time a bone finally heals only to be fractured or broken again reminds him that he’s somehow still breathing when his lungs struggle to fill with air underneath his ribcage.

He doesn’t know how, but he’s still alive. He’s still breathing. He’s still here somehow.

Sometimes, he just wishes he wasn’t.

The feeling of an arm tightening around him as Mitchell readjusts his grip, reminds Anders of the position he’s in. Mitchell is still holding him, safe, against his chest, even as he braces one hand on the wall for balance so he can kick off his shoes.

The jostling, the hitch of breath in his ear, the grunt Mitchell makes as he switches legs to toe off the other boot, having to focus to keep them both upright in the awkward position. It all comes crashing down on him like a wave in a storm.

Anders opens his mouth, feels how dry and thick his tongue is. He feels like he hasn’t drank anything in so long. His heart starts to speed up in his chest, his blood rushing to the surface of his cheeks.

“P-Put me down!” Anders could just die with how squeaky his voice comes out. Like a tiny frightened mouse in the grip of a lion. “Put me down!”

Mitchell startles at the sound, unaware Anders had even come to. His grip tightens for a moment, brain struggling to catch up. “Alr-“

“PUT ME DOWN!” Anders braces his hands on Mitchell’s chest, using the leverage to try and push out of Mitchell’s grip. He can’t believe how strong he is for such a scrawny looking guy.

Mitchell doesn’t respond, just hurries to comply, bending down quickly to set Anders back on the floor. The flailing seems to intensify for a brief moment as Anders hangs suspended in the air, right before his feet touch solid floor.

His knees nearly buckle under his own weight. They feel so weak from his panic attack, from the cold, and from Mitchell carrying him back to the house.

And more than that, from his humiliation.

He can’t believe Mitchell had to carry him back to his house. He can’t believe he humiliated Mitchell like that out in public where anyone could see.

“Shit I-” Anders feels like he can’t breathe all over again. Wonders how many panic attacks are possible in one day. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for that to-” Mitchell must be so disgusted by him. Will probably never want to go anywhere with him again. Fuck, he’ll probably never want to _see_ him again. “I really didn’t-”

“It’s alright kiddo, I’m not mad. Are you-” Mitchell wants to ask if Anders is okay, but before he can get anything out, Anders’ hand is darting out and grabbing his again. It feels clammy and cold in his own as the fingers squeeze his hand. “Anders?”

“Oh, God. Oh, no,”the words sound so weak and distressed, Mitchell can’t help feeling his own panic starting to rise. He doesn’t know what to do, doesn’t know if this is a sign that Anders is about to have another attack. Each one has been so different, Mitchell feels like he’s constantly one step behind trying to figure out what signs to look out for. Trying to figure out the right thing to say or do.

He settles for layinga hand on one of Anders’ tiny shoulders, trying to soothe him before he can be fully swallowed by the fear once again. He feels almost relieved when Anders doesn’t flinch away or brush it off. He thinks maybe he really _has_ made some progress.

Relieved until Anders lets out an agonized moan, his body shaking even harder than before.

The blood drains from Anders’ face as his head snaps up and desperate eyes lock onto Mitchell’s.

“Bowl!”

Anders can feel it rising in him like fire. Everything burning in his path. Everything feels too hot. Everything inside him. Everything outside of him. Everything is fire against his skin. Fire inside his stomach and his lungs and his _soul._ It burns faster and stronger than the cold from that night. Burns hotter than the water when Mike had put him in the bath. He can’t breathe. He can’t see. He can’t feel. It’s too much. It’s so much. It’s so hot.

Mitchell furrows his brows at the odd request. Bowl? Why would Anders need-

He can’t finish his question.

Doesn’t need to finish his question.

Anders doubles over not a second later, the repulsive sound of a gag bounces off the walls in the hallway, followed by the even more nauseating sound of vomit splattering against the floor.

“Oh, shit!” Mitchell wishes now he hadn’t taken off his shoes. He instinctively jerks back from the spray, effectively yanking at Anders who’s still gripping tight to his hand. The pitiful groan Anders makes is enough to tell Mitchell that he’s practically screaming “I’m sorry” in his mind at him, hoping Mitchell will hear his apology.

Anders heaves yet again, knows he should let Mitchell’s hand go. He really should. He feels so disgusting. As if ruining his day out wasn’t bad enough, now he’s ruining the rug in the hallway. And, all the food Mitchell had given him too.

Oh, _the food_.

This was all of his own fault. He knew better than to eat that much. He sometimes gets sick when he eats too much after days without food.

God, he’s such a fuck up.

A lull in his heaves gives him the chance to actually get a word or two out. “I’m… I’m sorry I’m so-”

His stomach rolls again and he gags, before he gets sick yet again.

Mitchell knows he needs to speak. Needs to open his mouth and talk and tell the poor fucking kid he’s not mad at him for getting sick. Like it was something he could help. Like he hadn’t tried to warn him it was about to happen. He almost boils over at the knowledge that someone _has_ yelled at him for this. Someone who probably _caused_ him to get sick in the first place.

His heart hurts.

Watching this is almost too much to handle.

_Get a fucking grip, Mitchell. If you think this is bad enough to watch, fucking imagine living it_ , his voice hisses in his mind. He shuts his eyes, keeps his nose closed to the rancid, sour smell of orange juice and stomach acid now filling the entryway, and moves his hand from Anders’ shoulder to gently rub along his back.

“It’s gonna be okay, Anders. I’m not mad. Just tell me when you’re done and I’ll clean it up, yeah? Just give me a little nod or squeeze my hand when you think you can move again. I’m not going anywhere.”

Anders opens his mouth to gasp for air, his back rising and falling as his body struggles for oxygen. Just as he’s about to start his stream of apologies another wave hits him and he chokes this time.

Anders can’t breathe again. He can’t breathe. And his lungs burn now with not only fire, but acid too. He’s going to die like this. Choking on his own vomit in the middle of a hallway holding the hand of someone who cares more for him than any of the people that should love him unconditionally.

He doesn’t even know Mitchell.

And somehow, despite the embarrassment screaming at him from every corner of his mind, Mitchell’s hand still holding his, even as he’s getting practically puked on, bring Anders a great more deal of comfort than he’d like to admit.

And far more than he even deserves.

Mitchell ignores the tears streaming down Anders’ face. If he acknowledges them or points them out he knows it’ll only make Anders feel more ashamed of this. When he shouldn’t feel ashamed at all.  “Shh, it’s okay. Don’t try and talk. I know you’re sorry. You have nothing to be sorry about. But I know.”

After a few final heaves, Anders takes a deep shuddering breath. He brings his arm up to wipe away the tears he knows are staining his face, dragging his sleeve across his eyes before he has a moment to register the flash of purple. _Shit._ Now he’s gone and ruined Mitchell’s jacket too.

His stomach lurches again when he takes another breath and catches the reeking smell in the hallway and the sight of acid splashed across the borrowed scarf. He scrabbles at it, tiny hand trying to gain purchase and rip it away from himself. He wants it gone, wants to get as far away as he can. It’s too tight; choking him. He can’t breathe.

A much larger hand covers his, stilling it’s frantic movements. “Easy, it’s alright. Let me do it okay?” Mitchell’s voice is soft, still trying to soothe, but Anders is already too deep in the fear and panic to even begin to understand why he’s still trying to help him. Why he’s not already shoving Anders to the floor and demanding he clean up his mess. He sags against him, the hand that’s still holding Mitchell’s squeezing in acquiescence.

He doesn’t trust himself to speak yet.

Mitchell unwinds the scarf slowly from around Anders’ neck, flinging it behind him and dropping it to the floor without a care for where it lands. His only focus right now is Anders, the events of the last half hour storming in his mind as he tries to block it all out and stay calm for him.

Anders hiccups slightly, breath hitching as he stands there and shakes. His chest still burns from the acid winding its way through his airways like poison in his lungs. More tears drip from his eyes as Mitchell watches him physically trying to get a hold of himself, watches his other arm twitch as he tries to stop himself from reaching up and wiping his face on the jacket again.

“I’m sor-”

“Anders, please, don’t. It’s fine, okay? I don’t mind.” Now that the initial shock is over, Mitchell finds he really doesn’t mind. He’s seen far worse at work, and the last things he wants right now is Anders’ apologies. He just wants him to be okay.

“I never liked this rug, really,” he tries to make light of the situation, face falling when all Anders does is close his eyes and turns his head away from him. Mitchell squeezes Anders hand again to get his attention, waiting for his eyes to open and focus back on him.

“Why don’t you go to the bathroom and get cleaned up while I sort this out. You know where it is right?”

Anders just looks at him blankly for a moment, before nodding dimly. His fingers linger in Mitchell’s grip before he finally lets go of his hand, reluctant to leave the safety and comfort Mitchell’s offered him behind. His own hand trembles as it falls to his side, fingers twitching as if Anders is unsure what to do with it, now that he’s no longer holding on to Mitchell’s hand.

He wavers slightly on his feet, Mitchell moving to steady him.

“Do you want me to come with you?” he asks, concerned.

“No!” Anders’ eyes flash with a hint of their usual defensiveness, and Mitchell feels an inordinate amount of relief flooding through him at the sight. Anders looks chargrined though, the flush on his cheeks increasing as his shame rises.

“No. I can do it myself,” he mumbles quietly, trying to ignore the flare of hope that had sparked inside of him at Mitchell’s offer. He doesn’t want to leave the comfort that he knows Mitchell’s trying to provide. That Mitchell _is_ providing. But it’s all just too much for him, and he can't even begin to understand. And so he just stares down at his vomit splattered shoes, letting each drop remind him of what he’s just done, of how ashamed he should be.

How ashamed he truly is.

He can feel it deep in his core, grabbing at his empty stomach and shaking him so hard he thinks Mitchell must hear his bones rattling around inside him. He knows his whole body is trembling from the cold and the exhaustion of today.

And the shame. How the shame makes him shake from head to toe.

“Okay then, there’s a spare toothbrush under the sink if you want to brush your teeth,” Mitchell says.

Anders just nods again, going over to the door and toeing off his shoes, forcefully ingrained habit not letting him take a step further into the house with them on. He lingers as he takes off the jacket, eyes spotting the sick on the sleeve, not knowing whether he should just hang it back up on the hook by the door, or leave it on the floor. He doesn’t want to make more of a mess, but he doesn’t want to risk getting anything else of Mitchell’s dirty. His head throbs in exhaustion. He’s so _tired_ of all this. Of even the simplest of decisions having to be mulled over and thought about from every angle, lest he suffer the consequences for making the wrong choice.

“Here,” once again Mitchell’s voice comes to his rescue, “let me take that. I can chuck it in the washer, no big deal.”

Sighing in relief, Anders hands the jacket over, avoiding making eye contact with Mitchell as he heads off towards the bathroom. He knows he should be saying thank you, or begging Mitchell for forgiveness, or at least making some sort of protest about Mitchell having to clean up his vomit from off the floor. But the exhaustion is hitting him like a wave now,crashing down on him and throwing him against the cliffs, leaving him feeling battered all over. At least if he avoids facing Mitchell he can continue pretending like everything’s going to be okay; like Mitchell isn’t going to yell at him when he comes back downstairs.

He’s grateful for Mitchell’s bizarre lack of a mirror when he reaches the bathroom. He doesn’t want to see his own face, see his own shame and embarrassment and humiliation reflected back at him. Doesn’t want to see how blotchy he knows his skin is right now. Doesn’t want to see the purple under his eyes that show off just how exhausted he is of all this. How even now he’s still struck with the tiny sliver of regret that Mike had found him that night.

Anders runs his hand under the tap, flinching slightly at how cold the water is. Cupping the water, he splashes it onto his face, scrubbing away the evidence of how not okay everything is right now. He holds his breath. He’s so used to feeling like he’s drowning all the time, to feeling like his head is just right below the surface. The icy water on his face just serves as a reminder of that night, and he washes hurriedly, desperate to be finished before the memory can try and drown him too. 

Crouching down, he hunts in the cabinet for the spare toothbrush, wincing as the motion jostles his unsettled stomach. He frowns at the slightly alarming amounts of antacids in Mitchell’s cupboard, before moving aside a couple of bottles of hair gel to get to the toothbrush he’s spotted behind them. He memorises exactly where they were before he moves them, so he can make sure to put it all back properly, his mind going through the motions and his hands following out of reflex, not even giving him the chance to consider that Mitchell won’t even care.

_Of course he would care, you ungrateful brat._

The voice in his head only adds to his growing headache as he starts brushing his teeth. He rests his aching forehead against the cool wall as he brushes mechanically, stare fixed on the trails of water slowly winding their way towards the drain and heading down, down, _down._

_Jesus._

Mitchell drops his head into his hands as he sits at the kitchen table, steaming mug of tea sitting untouched at his elbow. His mind is a maelstrom, too many thoughts and worries and _questions,_ questions he knows he shouldn’t ask and that he honestly probably doesn’t even want to hear the answer too. Questions he’s probably going to ask anyway, if only to calm his raging imagination.

Flashes of bodies gone cold on metal slabs, of tears pooling in cerulean depths, of dead trees and shuddering breaths and clouds of air. It’s all-consuming, the monster at the back of his mind stirring and unfurling in interest, poised to take over. Mitchell’s almost tempted to let it. To let it come in and wash away everything else and leave him with nothing but the anger.

But he knows that won’t help him, won’t help _Anders,_ and so he digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, pressing until it’s all erased and leaving him seeing nothing but coloured spots dancing across his vision.

It hadn’t taken him more than a moment to scoop up the rug and its unwanted contents and chuck them in the trash outside. The scarf had gone too; Mitchell uncaring of its loss but knowing deep down how it would sadden Anders, and in turn feeling that same sorrow and regret welling up inside of him as well.  

He wants to run upstairs and apologise to him. Tell Anders how sorry he is for everything that’s happened that day. But he shakes that thought away before it can take shape and gain substance. Mitchell knows that if he wants Anders to learn that he doesn’t need to apologise for things that aren’t his fault, then he himself needs to start doing the same.

Sighing, he runs a hand through his curls before pressing his palms to the tabletop and going over to the stove. He’d set a tin of soup on to simmer, despite knowing that Anders is going to tell him he doesn’t want it.

They both know how much he needs it. How much he needs to eat _something. Anything._ Mitchell can’t shake the feel of the bones underneath his hands, the trembling knobs of Anders’ spine as he’d tried to soothe him while he was getting sick.

It makes _Mitchell_ want to be sick.

Stirring the soup slowly, he tries to let his mind go blank as he listens out for the clanking of the pipes that will indicate when Anders is finished in the bathroom.

Anders dries his hands slowly, trying to draw out the inescapable for as long as possible. The inevitable yelling and screaming that often hurts more than the beating that always follows. He doesn’t want to go back downstairs and face his mistakes. He’s just _so tired._ Hopefully it’ll be over quickly. Maybe he’ll even get to pass out before Mitchell’s done.

He tries to pull back the mantra from where it’s gotten lost in the murky depths of his mind. _Mitchell won't hurt me. He said he'll never hurt me._

But it’s gone too deep, too quiet against the shivers running through Anders’ body. It’s weak now, the voice; the mantra won’t save him. Not after what’s just happened.

He has to pass Mitchell’s bedroom to get back to the stairs, footsteps quiet on the landing, already trying to work out which are the floorboards to avoid. It’s trick number six: _don’t make a sound._ The trick for when things have already gone to shit and he’s just trying to contain them as much as possible _._

The wooden door of Mitchell’s room hangs ajar, and Anders can just make out the corner of his bed, the crumpled green sheets and the soft, plump pillows. It looks so warm, _so inviting;_ Anders would give anything just to curl up and _forget;_ if only for a moment.

But he has to go back downstairs, and it’s with trepidation that he starts descending the staircase. The considerably colder air when he reaches the bottom step alerts him to the fact that Mitchell’s opened the window in the hall, no doubt in an effort to rid the room of the smell of Anders’ carelessness. Anders doesn’t know why he did it; he _knew_ that he shouldn’t have taken thatthird sandwich, he knew something like this could happen. But he went and did it anyway.

Shivering against the cold, he slips as silently as he can into the kitchen. Mitchell’s standing by the stove, leaning back against the counter with one arm wrapped around himself, the other hand buried in his hair. He drops them both when he spies Anders lingering in the doorway, haunted look dropping ever so slightly from his face.

Anders realises Mitchell looks drained, is probably as tired as he himself feels, and his mouth twists as he thinks of all the trouble he’s caused him today. _Mitchell didn’t even get to go and get his records_. He twists his hands in the front of his shirt in an attempt to stop the shivering, ducking his head and waiting for Mitchell’s harsh words to begin.

“I made some soup.”

Mitchell’s voice is soft, almost pleading in its gentleness.

"Look I'm really sor-"

Anders' apology falls flat in the air as Mitchell's words overtake them. Soup?

“You made...?” Anders blinks. His fingers tug harder at the shirt, eyes flicking to the pot on the stove then back to Mitchell. “Soup?”

His brain can't process fast enough. He's still waiting for Mitchell to grab him by his shirt or his hair or anywhere convenient and start screaming Anders' failures back in his face.

_Soup._

He ruined Mitchell's scarf.

_He made..._

Anders embarrassed him in public and forced him to abandon his plans so he could carry Anders home just so he could puke all over Mitchell's floor.

He ate way too much of Mitchell's food and then wasted it all by throwing it up. He absolutely _ruined_ today. And no amount of apologies or _soup_ could change that.

_Mitchell made soup._

“I'm... I'm not,” Anders takes a step back from the door. He knows how ungrateful he must already look. Even as his stomach gives a tiny rumble in protest over its emptiness, Anders can't possibly imagine wasting anymore of Mitchell's food. Not when there was still the chance he would get sick again right after eating. “I'm not hungry. I don't want…”

He can feel the panic starting to rise, yet again, and he just wishes Mitchell would beat him for fucking up already, because he's so sick of this dance around the inevitable.

Mitchell _will_ hit him.

It's only a matter of time.

Anders wants to trust Mitchell. He really does. But no one could let that many mistakes go unpunished.

“Just…” Anders feels hot. He feels freezing cold and insufferably hot all at once. “Just get it over with,” he whispers, trying not to let himself hang his head in shame and defeat.

Tries not to let it hang in the _relief_ he knows he shouldn't feel with the words. But once it's out in the open between him, he feels the panic ebb away a little. Mitchell can go ahead and stop pretending to be so nice now. Anders doesn't think he can take another minute waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Mitchell’s brow furrows in puzzlement as he watches Anders’ shoulders droop in resignation.

“Just get what…” Realisation overtakes confusion as Mitchell’s eyes widen in horror. _He’s waiting for me to hit him._ He shakes his head harshly, closing his eyes to keep them from turning black in anger and clenching his hands at his sides.

It takes Mitchell less than 2 seconds to realise that that too was a mistake; Anders’ sharp intake of breath at the sight of Mitchell’s fists matching the uptake of his heartbeat, the rich smell tainted with a scent Mitchell was all too familiar with: _fear._

Forcing himself to relax, he takes a step forward, dropping to a crouch in front of Anders.

“Anders, look at me.”

Anders glances up at Mitchell, but quickly looks away again, flinching as he hunches in on himself. Mitchell wants to reach out, lay his hand on his shoulder like he has done in the past to try and soothe him, but he’s too afraid, the feeling sitting unnaturally within him. He’s not used to feeling fear, to feeling out of control.

He doesn’t ever want Anders to look at him the way he _should._ Like he’s some kind of monster that he needs to fear. It unsettles him more than he’s willing to admit, the thought of Anders being afraid of him. Churns his blood in a manner he’s unused to, pulling on emotions he’d long assumed buried back with his family in Ireland.

“Anders, _please.”_

Mitchell’s voice is so imploring, so sickeningly _kind,_ that Anders finds he can’t stop himself from looking back up at him. His gaze lingers this time as he looks, really _looks_ ; taking in the hurt and confusion in Mitchell’s eyes, the concern written plain as day across his face.  

“I’m not going to...” Mitchell’s voice catches slightly and he clears his throat before continuing, words gaining strength from conviction. “I _won’t_ hurt you. Do you understand that? No matter what you do, no matter how angry you think you’ve made me, I will _never_ hit you or hurt you in any way.”

Mitchell waits, just willing Anders to understand that he doesn’t need to be frightened. He doesn’t need to be _sorry._

“But I…” Anders’ voice shakes as his hands twist further in his shirt, knuckles turning white at the effort.

“No.” Mitchell growls, cutting across him. “Listen to me. _None of this is your fault.”_

Mitchell can’t stop himself now, leaning forward to place his hand on Anders’ shoulder. He needs something to ground himself, to tether himself against the oncoming waves of anger. And at the same time, it’s all he can do not to shake Anders, to try and make him understand what Mitchell is trying to tell him.

“I’m not mad at you. You couldn’t help being sick. It’s not your fault.” Mitchell says the words slowly, keeping them simple, trying to drill them into Anders’ brain. It’s not unlike how he used to speak to his soldiers, back before… _No._ Mitchell’s mind recoils violently at that thought. Anders is a boy, a _child._ Not a soldier.

Gently squeezing the trembling shoulder, he lets his voice soften again. “Even if I _was_ mad at you, I’d still never hurt you.”

He waits, watching for a sign that shows Anders believes him. Anders nods eventually, a slight jerk of his head, but Mitchell can see in his eyes that he’s still not sure. That although he may have accepted that Mitchell wasn’t going to punish him for what had just happened, he’s still not convinced that Mitchell won’t hurt him in the future.

Mitchell sighs. _That’ll have to do for now._

Getting up off the floor, Mitchell goes back to the stove, turning off the heat and putting the pot to one side. He points at the chair across the kitchen where he’s draped a sweatshirt for Anders to wear.

“I got that for you,” he says, hoping Anders isn’t going to argue with him about this too. He understands why Anders can’t trust him. Why he can’t just accept Mitchell’s help. But it’s still draining, leaving him feeling weary with the effort of just getting Anders to accept simple kindness. It eats away at him, the guilt of his own exhaustion in the face of Anders’ misery.

Anders lingers in the doorway, mind still trying to process what Mitchell just said. He _wants_ to believe him, he really does, but he’s so used to broken promises and lies that he can’t even begin to imagine that Mitchell’s really telling the truth. No one’s that nice without wanting something in return.

He shivers again as a draft brushes in from the hall.

_You deserve this. If you hadn’t been sick Mitchell wouldn’t have had to open the windows._

But the sweatshirt Mitchell’s laid out for him looks so soft and thick. He can’t keep himself from taking a hesitant step towards it. He thinks of the shirt Mitchell lent him before,it’s warmth and comfort currently tucked away under his pillow where Mike won’t find it. He wants that again; that same feeling. His fingers twitch to pick it up, to pull it on and find that same comfort again. No matter how short-lived he believes it to be.

He’s gotten good at pretending things are going to be okay.

Checking to make sure Mitchell’s back is still turned, he quickly grabs the sweatshirt, practiced fingers deftly rolling up the sleeves once he’s put it on. He can’t remember the last time he’d worn something that actually fit him, that was specifically bought with him in mind. But in this instance, he can’t bring himself to mind so much. Not when the thick material is swathing him like a blanket, blocking out the cold from the house.

It smells like Mitchell, like crisp winter mornings and cigarette smoke and old wood, and he dips his nose into the collar, sighing softly as it washes over him, calming his mind from the turmoil of the day. He balks when he realises what he’s doing, and he straightens quickly, eyes darting to Mitchell, hoping he didn’t see.

“So, soup?” Mitchell tries again, glancing over his shoulder from where he’s already spooning it into a bowl, fighting to keep the smile off his face from what he’d just caught Anders doing.

Anders bites his lip, shoving his hands into the pocket on the front of the sweatshirt so that Mitchell can’t see them shake. It’s too late. He can’t put up a fight now. Not when Mitchell’s already made it for him.

It’s only then, as resignation washes over him, that Anders realises he didn’t ask yet what kind of soup Mitchell’s made, the open window carrying away the smell of it on the wind.

“It’s not, chicken noodle soup, is it?” Nerves clench in his gut as his mind starts to drift, and he holds his breath as he waits in nervous anticipation for Mitchell’s response.

“Nope, just tomato. I wasn’t sure what you’d like and this was really all I had...” Mitchell trails off, frowning slightly as he watches Anders shoulders physically drop in relief.

“What have you got against chicken noodle soup anyway?” he teases, trying to lighten the mood as he grabs the bowl and a spoon and heads into the living room, expecting Anders to follow.

Anders doesn’t follow.

Anders stays rooted to his spot in the kitchen, mind flashing back to that awful night and the soup he’d eaten in that diner. He’d not been able to stand the thought of it since, the memory of the steam swirling over the bowl enough to have his stomach curling in knots. He shudders slightly, breath starting to come quickly again as his hands start shaking even more. He wants to move, wants to follow Mitchell and not have to relive that night _again,_ but it’s like a trainwreck. The first carriage has come unrailed and now the rest are falling, pushing forward and taking everything down in their wake.

_Fuck._

He can feel the fog creeping back in, tendrils reaching out to stroke at the corners of his mind, trying to gain a foothold and drag him back. He shuts his eyes, panic setting in, heart racing, until -

“Easy kiddo; it’s okay.”

The warm weight of Mitchell’s hand is back on his shoulder, and Anders snaps his eyes open, not having even realised that he’d closed them. He finds Mitchell’s own staring back at him, hazel darkening to chocolate as he stares at him with concern. Anders’ breath hitches again at the sight, so unused to seeing that emotion directed at him. So unused to seeing anything but anger and disgust, or worse, _pity,_ aimed his way.

He takes deep shuddering breaths, trying to calm himself enough that he can force out another apology, but Mitchell’s already ahead of him, holding a finger to his lips and telling him to _breathe, just breathe._

They stay like that for a moment, the only sound in the room the soft litany of Mitchell’s voice, deep and quiet and soothing. Once he’s satisfied with the slower speed of Anders’ heartbeat, Mitchell guides him over to the sofa, sitting him down and placing the bowl of soup in his lap. He watches the way Anders curls his hands around it, the shaking that he’d tried to hide from Mitchell subsiding as the warmth from the bowl eases through them.

Anders grips the spoon tightly, trying to prevent any of it from spilling as he slowly brings it up to his mouth. It’s good, surprisingly so, but he forces himself to eat it slowly, not wanting a repeat of his earlier mistakes.

As Anders begins to eat, Mitchell busies himself with flicking on the TV and surfing through the channels. He’s pleasantly surprised to see an old Laurel and Hardy playing, and he leaves that on, turning the volume down low. He can taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, his lip bitten raw from both his worry and his desire to keep his questions to himself.

_What the fuck happened today?_

He knows that whatever it was, it must be truly horrifying for Anders to have reacted that way, and it’s this thought that stays his tongue. He’d rather not force Anders to have to relive his pain anymore than he already has. He settles back into the sofa, contending himself with sneakily watching Anders out of the corner of his eye.

Anders is only about a third of the way through the bowl when his stomach starts to protest, warning signals that he shouldn’t eat anymore spreading through his system. He brings the spoon to his mouth again though, not wanting to disappoint Mitchell by leaving more than half his food, silently hoping he’ll be able to excuse himself to use the bathroom before his stomach protests even further.

His mouthfuls come slower and slower, but he diligently keeps eating, knowing Mitchell expects it from him, knowing that any moment Mitchell’s gonna snap at him to hurry the fuck up.

Sure enough, moments later Mitchell turns to him, frowning as he sees the amount left in the bowl. Anders cowers slightly, ducking his head.

“Hey! Save some for me!”

Anders jumps at the sound of Mitchell’s laughter, the light chuckle followed by a mock huff of indignation. Anders’ small hands offer no resistance when Mitchell reaches over and gently takes the bowl from him, saving him from having to force the rest down.

It’s all too much, the whole day a whirlwind of confusion that Anders can’t even begin to try and sift through. He can’t remember the last time he felt this exhausted; bone weary and so defeated to the point where he finds that he doesn’t even care about the hows or the whys anymore.

He just wants to fall asleep, to fall asleep and act like none of this is real, that this whole day has just been some nightmare that hasn’t really happened.

He curls his legs up underneath himself, not even bothering to check if Mitchell will mind that he has his feet on the couch, too exhausted to even care. He can feel the memories of all that had happened today battering at the flimsy wall he’d managed to throw up to keep them away and he just wants it all to stop.

Just for a moment.  

Ignoring the amused snort coming from Mitchell’s direction, he leans his head against the arm of the couch, arms instinctively coming up to wrap around himself. He closes his eyes and lets the exhaustion in, sleep taking him before he has a chance to register the warm weight of Mitchell flicking a blanket over him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Raven is currently at [durinsghosts](www.durinsghosts.tumblr.com) for the Halloween period.


	6. Weight of Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long and it's not even 33k this time.  
> we have nothing to say for ourselves we're pathetic peace out *moon walks back to 2K15*

Anders dreams of ice and snow, of cold air and warm puffs of breath. He dreams of Ty trying to reach out and grab his hand, but never quite being able to reach Anders’ outstretched fingers. He shivers in his sleep, burrowing deeper in the warmth of the blanket wrapped around him.

The scent of the fabric permeates the frigid frost of his dreams, the smell Anders is slowly equating to security wrapping its warm tendrils around his mind and lulling his dreams into quiet. The tail end of the scent like smoke, hazing the chill away.

Mitchell watches Anders on the couch, unable to pay attention to the television quietly filling the room around them. It’s hard to find it in himself to laugh at the comedy playing out on the screen when there’s a tragedy occurring in his living room. Anders’ face is scrunched up in discomfort and Mitchell can only guess at what horrors his mind digs up and torments him with. Sometimes when Mitchell lies awake at night, fitfully tossing and turning, his mind chases him in this manner, taking all the spaces he’s trying to empty so he can just fall asleep and filling them with flashes of his past, flashes of red and black and blood seeping across the floor. He frowns as Anders lets out a quiet noise of distress before he pulls the blanket tighter around himself.  _ At least my memories are of my own doing,  _ Mitchell thinks sadly, stomach tightening at the thought of Anders’ nightmares only adding to the horrendous circumstances of his own life, attacking him when he’s at his most vulnerable, his own mind an enemy. Mitchell can only blame himself for his nightmares. 

When Anders seems to bury into the blanket even further, Mitchell slowly gets off of the couch and heads upstairs, searching the linen closet for a spare blanket. He finds one underneath a stack of sheets, a thick mohair one that he’d picked up in Istanbul in the 70s, and carefully levers it out from beneath the pile, mindful not to spill them everywhere.

He heads back downstairs quietly, skipping the third step from the top that always creaks loudly. He pokes his head round the door, grateful to see Anders still sleeping, and when he stops in front of the couch, he clutches the blanket tight at the sight of him. Anders’ face is so peaceful, so passive and calm in his sleep.

He looks every bit the child that he is and Mitchell’s heart pangs its sorrow throughout his entire being that anyone could ever want to hurt Anders. It strikes him again just how  _ young  _ Anders really is, how he should be out playing with friends or his brothers right now, not passing out exhausted on Mitchell’s couch. 

With a practiced grace, Mitchell eases the blanket over Anders’ body, heart aching at the contented sigh Anders lets out as he fidgets under the new weight. Mitchell’s hands linger over the blanket as he smooths it out, waiting for Anders to settle. He hopes the extra warmth will help keep his mind quiet for the rest of his nap. God knows the kid could use some sleep.

Mitchell leaves the living room and heads into the basement, the smell of fresh laundry and detergent washing over him and soothing the headache he could feel forming. He almost envies Anders, wishes he too could just close his eyes and block out this day for a moment, but he snatches that thought away from himself. Anders needs him, awake and able to take care of him; whether he will admit it or not. He heads over to the washer, the load he’d started when Anders was in the toilet now finished, but he figures it won’t hurt to give it another wash. He opens the lid of the machine, dumping in another heap of detergent before starting it again, quickly closing the door behind him to shut out the noise until it fades into nothing but a low hum.

With a peek back in the living room, Mitchell wonders how long Anders will sleep. He doesn’t plan on waking him up any time soon, but he’s unsure if he should start lunch sooner rather than later. Glancing at his watch, he lets out an audible groan when he realises it’s only 11am. He feels every bit of his 101 years today, drained in a way he hasn’t felt in decades. 

He remembers when he first became a vampire, the thoughts that his maker had planted in his mind to twist and warp his view of the world. He remembers the anger he’d felt, his disgust at the notion of  _ humanity,  _ how weak and fragile it seemed. Now he feels that same fury, that same bitterness and abhorrence towards the very people who claimed to be the gods of evolution but had in fact never grown out of their primordial instincts to pick off the weak and watch them burn. 

And yet here Mitchell was, grown from his early years and possessing the knowledge and understanding of the importance of compassion, of mercy and of kindness, wanting nothing more than to be like them, to find those that had hurt Anders and make them feel every bit of his pain for themselves. He wants to be better, that’s all he’s ever wanted, but looking over at the tiny frame huddled on his couch, he wants nothing more than to rip the city apart house by house and make  _ humanity  _ pay. The word is a sneer in his mind and he shakes his head as he feels his eyes beginning to bleed black, his mouth tingling where his fangs are waiting to descend. It’s an awareness he’s been blithely ignorant of for over a year now, and he coughs to clear his throat, unsure whether or not he imagined the tickle he’d felt there. 

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, his thoughts racing back away from where they’d drifted off too. 

_ Lunch. He can handle lunch.  _

The refrigerator reveals nothing but take out leftovers and old sandwich meat that Mitchell wrinkles his nose at. The cabinet doesn’t fare much better, as he’s sure no one who feels sick wants to eat a bag of crisps and half a package of biscuits for lunch. Well, except him perhaps.

Mitchell shifts from foot to foot as he takes in the contents of his food. Christ he needs to go shopping if he wants to keep this up. With a heavy sigh, Mitchell hopes Anders won’t mind more tomato soup for lunch. He peers back in the fridge and a smile tugs at his lips. He has cheese and butter. He could make Anders a grilled cheese sandwich to go with his soup. And if he just makes one and splits it in half, maybe Anders won’t feel as uncomfortable with the amount of food in front of him. 

Temporarily satisfied with his meager plans for lunch, he sets the kettle to boil, mentally preparing himself for the inevitable argument over the food. He wonders how Anders does this all day, checks and edits his every word and movement, constantly on edge and aware of everything around him. It’s too much, too much for young shoulders to bear.  

Sighing as he slumps in a kitchen chair, he listens out for the sound of water beginning to boil, wanting to pull the kettle off the stove before it whistles, painfully conscious of the fact that even the slightest noise would wake Anders up. He wants as little noise as possible in the house, anything to ensure Anders gets a good rest and is able to sleep for as long as he needs. 

The mug of tea is warm on his fingers as he cradles it at the kitchen table. He sips it quietly as he listens to the steady breath pushing in and out of Anders’ lungs,the low thud of his heart beating slower than Mitchell has ever heard it. It soothes him as he watches snow drifting slowly past the window. Leaning his head in his hands, Mitchell lazily mulls over what to do about everything, how he can help the kid asleep on his couch. Even if he called child services, Mitchell has a feeling it won’t do Anders much good. Surely he wouldn’t be the first to call them on behalf of Anders. Surely someone else would have noticed and cared. 

Mitchell sighs at the peaceful scenery in front of him, feeling anything but calm and quiet. A part of his mind, deep beneath the parts he pretends are his humanity, the monster stirs and reminds him that he could find Anders’ parents and rip their throats from their bodies, watch them choke on less blood than they’ve tainted and spilled of their own sons’. 

The kitchen tinges red around him as the monster crawls forward, painting revenge in hues of scarlet and ruby. 

_ No.  _

He breathes in slowly.  _ This is not the way. _

He quells the demon’s thirst with a swallow of tea, scalding his throat and burning away the tickle that this time he knows he definitely did not imagine.

There has to be a way he can help Anders without killing anyone. A  _ better _ way. 

Mitchell takes another sip of tea. He doesn’t know what he can do, and he knows he can’t ask Anders what he can do to help him, knowing the kid will immediately become defensive and wall himself up behind his protective armor. He’ll tell Mitchell that it’s not his job to help him. That he doesn’t  _ want  _ him to help him. That he doesn’t  _ need  _ anyone to save him.

But Mitchell knows he has to save Anders, that Anders needs it so desperately he’s forgotten what it’s like to need anything else. To need any _ one  _ else. 

And Mitchell just wants to help him, not out of pity but out of compassion, out of empathy and loneliness. His motives aren’t even truly altruistic, he thinks grimly. He knows that selfishly a part of him relates to this kid, and that he’s so starved for human interaction that he wants to save Anders if only to help save himself. But that’s not why he’s so desperate to help, to be the person that does so. It’s because he sees something in Anders that he used to see in himself, back when he was just a boy going off to war; scared shitless but doing it anyway, pasting a brave mask on his face. No one had been there to save Mitchell, to tell him it was going to be okay. And so he wants to be person that gets to save him, this broken kid who’s shown more courage and sparks of humour than he has any right too. He wonders if maybe it will help him heal, to let go of his own demons. 

Mitchell wants to take the sparks that have yet to die out in Anders, few as they are, and protect them, let them kindle into flames. Even if what Anders needs is so much more than what Mitchell can give.

Mitchell cradles his head in his hands for a moment, his fingers pushing through his tangled hair.  _ There has to be a way. _

His shoulders sag as his mind dissects a plethora of ideas, scrapping them all instantly. 

He needs to do this gradually, he realises. Nothing can be done overnight and as fucked up as Anders’ world is, upsetting it that quickly will only backfire on Mitchell.

Mitchell pulls his cigarette case out of his pocket and puts one between his lips. The second it’s lit, he takes a drag so deep it burns his lungs.  _ Slowly _ . Mitchell knows time is nothing to him, a concept long forgotten in his immortality. But if it’s one thing Anders doesn’t have, it’s time.

As he glances over at the couch, the tip of Anders’ blanketed feet visible through the open doorways, his hands remember the frailty of Anders’ body, so starved and ruined in the face of his parents’ cruelty and neglect. The ash falls from his cigarette into the tray and Mitchell watches it crumble and break apart. He wonders how much longer Anders has before he does the same. 

The best thing he can do right now is buy Anders more time, he decides. Get him away from that house as often as possible, fight every war Anders wages in his desperation to bite the hand that tries to feed him.

Mitchell lights another cigarette when he finishes the first, sucking it down into his lungs as if the smoke contains all the answers he frantically craves and needs.

But all it is, is smoke. Hazy and cloudy, shrouding him in something just behind the veil he can’t quite reach.

Sighing, Mitchell gets up to refill the kettle.

 

* * *

 

 

Anders lets out a small groan as he rolls over on the couch. He doesn’t want to get up, but his mind is already screaming at him to. He doesn’t know how long he’s slept, he hasn’t helped with any of the chores he should have done, and he’s being ungrateful by overextending his stay.

Not to mention the laundry.

God, the laundry.

The morning rushes back to Anders and the frost of his mind clears like someone dumped hot water into him. He pushes himself up quickly and glances around the room, Mitchell nowhere to be found. He opens his mouth to call out for him, but his dry tongue sticks to the roof his mouth.

He’s grateful for it.

He has no idea if Mitchell will be upset with him for falling asleep with the washing not being done. Mitchell had said he didn’t mind doing it, but Anders couldn’t tell if that was a lie or a trap and his mind just feels dizzy as he swings his legs off the couch and stands up.

Mitchell walks into the living room, a mug of tea in his hands.

Anders freezes, his eyes trailing up to Mitchell’s face. Fear claws at his chest, trying to climb it’s way up his throat and out of his mouth in forms of apologies and promises to work harder, to try harder. 

But Mitchell’s eyes light up when he sees him, no trace or hint of anger over Anders falling asleep.

“Afternoon, kiddo!” Mitchell walks towards him, slow but leisurely. He doesn’t want Anders to think he’s dancing around him, approaching him like the frightened animal he refuses to admit that he is. But move too fast and he knows Anders will think he’s going to hit him.

Before Anders can say anything, Mitchell shoves the mug in his cold hands. He doesn’t let go until he can feel Anders’ fingers tighten around it.

“It’s Irish Breakfast, hope you don’t mind,” he tells him, watching Anders glance down into the contents of the cup.

“Of course it is,” Anders sighs, but lifts it to his lips all the same.

Mitchell watches Anders sip the tea, excitement bubbling in his chest. He realises this the first time Anders has ever accepted food or a drink from him without a fight. It’s hardly much to call a win, but to Mitchell, it feels like the greatest victory. It’s sticky on his tongue, like the too much milk and sugar in the mug of tea Anders is now drinking.

But the taste of triumph fades too quickly, before he even has a chance to swallow and savour it. 

Mitchell knows this is hardly an accomplishment. He knows he’s in a war with Anders, and this was just the beginning of the fight.

Anders takes another sip, his tongue darting along his lips as he pulls the mug away. “It’s sweet.”

Mitchell nods. “I hate milk and sugar in any other tea, except Irish breakfast. Guess it just reminds me of home,” he shrugs with a soft smile.

Anders looks back down at the cup once more. His face looks worn and tired for a moment, a crumbling in the mask Mitchell isn’t sure how he can put on so fast after waking up. He pushes the thought down for now, not wanting to think about the answer and what it means, and instead wonders if he’s said something wrong. Maybe the mention of home. Maybe it’s just the weight of the day starting to resettle on Ander’s shoulders.

Maybe it’s the weight of the confession; the small, whispered, “I like it,” sounding almost like the world’s greatest secret whispered in the gap between them.

Mitchell breathes out a near silent sigh and lets a smile pull at his lips. “I do, too.”

Anders looks up at him after he takes another sip, this time larger than the first few. He almost looks sad as he sets the mug down on the coffee table.

“Have you done the laundry yet?” Anders asks him with no preamble, and Mitchell wishes the kid would just let himself rest for a goddamn day. He knows he can’t, but, god, he really wishes he would.

“It’s just finishing in the wash,” Mitchell tells him, glancing back towards the basement door.

“I’m-”

“Do you want to help me put it up on the line?”

Anders nods. “I can do that,” he replies quickly and pushes away from the couch.

“Not so fast kiddo,” Mitchell chuckles and holds out his hand. “You’ve been asleep for a few hours, it’s gone lunchtime. Let’s go eat first, yeah?”

He braces himself, already know what’s coming.

“I’m not hungry,” Anders fires off the well-rehearsed line Mitchell knows that it is.

“Well I am and it’s already on the stove,” Mitchell shrugs and turns back towards the kitchen, hoping that Anders will follow without turning this into another huge battle.

He hears the sigh behind him, but smiles when Anders picks up the cup of tea and follows behind him without another word.

Mitchell heads over to the stove, turning the burner on high and giving the soup a quick stir. He resolutely avoids looking over at the table, hoping that Anders will sit down without Mitchell having to tell him it’s okay to do so this time. He can practically hear Anders hesitating, his pulse throbbing momentarily, and Mitchell sets down the spoon, ready to crack when he hears the dull scrape of the chair being dragged out. He smiles softly to himself,  _ another small victory.  _ He realises that if it’s going to take time to fix this for Anders then he needs to cherish the small victories for what they are.  

“What’s for lunch?” Anders asks from behind him, and Mitchell can just feel the bitterness in his tone, like winter wind at his back.

“Tomato soup,” Mitchell grins as he turns back to look at Anders.

A quirk of a brow and a tilt of his head almost has Mitchell laughing. “Seriously, asshole?”

“It’s all I have!” Mitchell bites his lip to keep from laughing at the scowl on Anders’ face. “How about I sweeten the pot, then? Grilled cheese sound alright?”

“That’s not really-”

“I think it sounds great. I always love grilled cheese with tomato soup,” Mitchell talks over Anders and he can hear the loud sigh he makes again. “Wanna split one?”

Mitchell holds his breath. He hopes his tactic works.

“Fine,” Anders shrugs and takes another sip of his tea.

Mitchell lights up and quickly grabs the things from the fridge. He can’t believe how almost cooperative Anders is being.

_ He must be tired _ .

Mitchell’s shoulders sag at the thought, a harsh reminder of why Anders is so stubborn to begin with. A part of him, the selfish part of him, wishes he could just have a single moment that isn’t tainted with the admonition of Anders’ harsh life.

_ Try living it _ , Mitchell scolds himself as he turns back to the stove.

The soup simmers as he butters bread, adding cheese and popping it under the grill, as Anders continues to sit quietly, no doubt watching Mitchell’s every move. Mitchell wonders if he should feel unsettled under the intensity of Anders’ gaze, but he doesn’t. It’s strange, but it makes him feel almost at ease.

Just knowing Anders is safe here is a comfort to Mitchell beyond any. Knowing he’s not being hurt and neglected and pushed closer and closer to edge of beyond repair.

Mitchell turns the burner off and grabs two bowls from the cabinet. He splits the soup up, hoping Anders won’t notice he put a little more in his bowl.

He brings them to the table and quickly doubles back for the sandwich. He cuts it down the middle, into two perfect triangles, and brings it to the table. As he sits down, he slides the plate in between them.

“You forgot spoons.”

“Shit, sorry,” Mitchell murmurs as he gets up and grabs them from the drawer, putting one down in Anders’ bowl, and one down in his own.

Anders stares at the spoon in his bowl. Stares at it like it’s going to jump out and attack him.

“Why do you always do everything for me?” he whispers down to this soup, his eyes refusing to look up at Mitchell’s.

“Anders,” Mitchell bends a little to see Anders’ face. His body feels colder when he sees the anger beginning to swim in those tired blue eyes. He looks ten times more exhausted than he had when he got up.

“Why do you always do everything for me?!” Anders snarls and pushes the bowl away from him. “I don’t want your help! I don’t need it!”

“I’m not-”

“Yes, you fucking are!” Anders snarls at him too, finally looking up at Mitchell’s face. “You’re always so nice all the fucking time and you do everything for me like I’m a fucking baby!”

Mitchell watches the anger and rage well up in Anders’ eyes, his face turning pink in his effort to destroy everything in the storm that’s building inside of him.

“Anders,” Mitchell sets his own spoon down and puts a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t move it even when Anders tries to flinch away.

“I’m not trying to treat you like a child. I’m doing everything for you because you’re sick and tired and you don’t need to get up from the table. I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself, as well,” Mitchell feels Anders shaking under his hand. “And I’m nice to you because I want to be. Because I enjoy your company. Because I want to be your friend.”

“I don’t need a friend,” Anders mutters and tries to move away from the hand again.

_ Yes, you do _ .  _ We both do.  _

Mitchell eyebrows pinch together as he gazes beseechingly across the table, willing Anders’ eyes to meet his own.  __

“That’s okay,” Mitchell says, “I’ll be here when you do need one, then.” He shrugs and pulls his hand away, reaching down to pick his spoon back up. “Now eat your food before it gets cold. Reheating it will definitely be on you.”

Anders stares down at his soup, his mind seething at Mitchell’s words. He wants to throw them back in his face. He wants to throw the soup in his face. But he can’t. And more than anything, he wants to make himself stop feeling that pang of hope as the word ‘friend’ repeats in his mind and trickles down his spine and into his blood.

His blood that boils like water in a pot.

Anders very slowly lifts the spoon to his mouth, forcing the food over his tongue and down his throat. It tastes bitter. And he doesn’t want to eat. And he wants Mitchell to stop looking at him so encouragingly when he takes another spoonful.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s not fucking nice to stare?” Anders snarls and Mitchell can’t help but smile at him. It’s like watching a kitten hiss.

“Sorry, kiddo,” he tries not to laugh as he turns his attention back to his own food, “just wanted to make sure it tastes okay.”

“Right,” Anders sinks his spoon into his soup and takes another bite.

“So?”

“So, what?” Anders asks with a sigh. How is he even supposed to eat if Mitchell is going to sit there and watch him like a creep and then ask him questions?

“So does it taste okay?”

Anders looks up at him, putting his spoon down in the bowl. His body prickles all over in irritation. The overwhelming urge to leave and be left alone crawls under his skin, clawing at all of his nerves at once. Anders doesn’t like how much of him Mitchell can see.

“It’s from a goddamn can. What do you think, asshole?”

Mitchell rests his chin in his palm and grins lazily at him. “You don’t scare me.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in and Anders blinks twice before his eyes narrow. “I’m not-”

“What about the sandwich?” Mitchell nudges the plate toward Anders. “Does that taste alright?”

Anders snatches up the bread, his blood seething in his veins. He takes a small bite and sets it down. “It tastes fine,” he nearly growls as he swallows the sandwich.

“Good because the dates on everything were a bit off and I wasn’t-”

“Mitchell!” Anders pales and Mitchell cracks a large grin, watching blood rising to Anders’ cheeks in his embarrassment at his outburst.

Mitchell chuckles, a deep, throaty sound that Anders wishes wasn’t so contagious. He feels like his body is betraying him when his lips pull into a tiny smile. “God, you’re such an-”

“Asshole, I know, I know,” Mitchell picks up his spoon and takes a loud slurp from it and Anders tries to find the noise grating, but he just can’t. “I was kidding anyway kiddo. The food’s fine.” 

Anders narrows his eyes.

“Can’t say the same about the milk in your tea though,” Mitchell laughs, and Anders loses the battle against the smile on his face as it widens briefly. He ducks his head, not wanting Mitchell to see, not wanting him to feel like he has something over Anders. Even if it is just the ability to make him smile. Anders doesn’t want to owe him anything. 

Sighing, he finally brings his spoon back to his mouth and, much quieter than Mitchell, begins to eat once again.

The soup doesn’t taste as bitter now.

They eat in silence for a while, but Anders doesn’t mind the quiet. Mitchell doesn’t seem too bothered by it either, and Anders relaxes by the minute as his body relishes in the comforts of yet another warm meal.

Mitchell sets his spoon in his empty bowl and turns to Anders. With only one quick glance, Anders already knows what he’s going to ask.

“You really wanna know about the park?”

Mitchell isn’t sure what startles him more, the fact that Anders knows what he was about to ask, or the fact he’s so casual about it. It hurts him when he recognizes it as armor. Armor to keep himself from being hurt further by a memory that still haunts him.

“Yeah, I do,” Mitchell breathes out, watches several emotions play on Anders’ face. Reluctance, acceptance, irritation, indecision.

Anders face finally settles on the impassive mask Mitchell knows so well.

“There’s not much to tell,” he gives a little shrug and Mitchell knows that’s a boldfaced lie; knows Anders has enough to tell he could fill books. But he doesn’t press, just keeps watching him pick at the last part of his sandwich. “What do you really wanna know?”

Mitchell thinks for a moment. Knows Anders is testing him, testing them. He knows  _ all of it _ makes him sound nosy, and  _ only the worst of it _ makes him sound morbidly curious. To be honest, he doesn’t  _ want  _ to know at all, doesn’t want the anger he knows he will feel weighing on the remnants of his soul. But he knows that it will help Anders to tell someone, to share the burden of sorrow and pain, and so he twirls his mug around in his hand for a moment before he finally settles on his answer.

“Whatever you want to tell me.”

Anders smirks at him. “And if I want to tell you nothing?”

Mitchell meets his eyes. “Then we’ll go hang the clothes on the line and I won’t ask again.”

For a moment, Anders considers taking this deal. He knows Mitchell will end up asking him again sometime. Maybe not this memory, maybe not for a while, but it will happen eventually. And probably more often than Anders wants to deal with. Probably more often than Mitchell even wants to deal with.

Anders glances down at the table, his eyes trailing to the ash tray near his elbow. He slides it forward towards Mitchell.

“Joe- my dad, made me sleep in the park a couple winters ago because I pissed him off,” Anders shrugs and looks down at his mug of cool tea. “I lost track of time and I got punished for it. That’s pretty much it.”

Mitchell knows that’s  _ not  _ pretty much it, but he can’t push Anders, not any more than he already has. He hides the shaking of his hands by seeking out the cigarette case in his pocket.

Anders finds Mitchell’s silence oddly comforting.

“I let my little brother play at the park, it was only supposed to be for ten minutes, but I got stuck in a book. Made it home an hour late. My parents don’t like it when I waste their time.” Anders stops for a moment, watching the way Mitchell’s lighter sparks, the cigarette catching fire before smoldering into ash.

“Call it poetic justice, or irony, or whatever you really want,” Anders gave a little grin he didn’t feel, “but my dad dragged my ass back to the park and left me there with a dislocated shoulder.”

“Jesus,” Mitchell breathes out smoke, his eyes closing tight so Anders can’t see them bleed black.

Anders shrugs. “The rest really doesn’t matter. Popped my shoulder back in place, holed up in a café until it closed, went back to the park and waited for as long as I could before I eventually fell asleep.”

Mitchell knows there’s so much more to it. So much Anders is leaving out. The pain of his injuries, the torment of waiting for probably hours for someone to come take him home, the rejection and misery, and the suffering.

Mitchell swears he can feel it when he looks in Anders’ eyes, feel it all resonating through his body and beating on him like waves breaking down on him. How is he not drowning?

How is Anders not drowning?

Mitchell lights another cigarette, just so he can do something with his hands.

“That’s pretty much it,” Anders finishes off the last dregs of his cold tea. He feels neither relief nor comfort from telling Mitchell his story. But he doesn’t feel as awful as he thought he would. Mitchell seems to be taking it well, though Anders doesn’t miss the look of agitation in his eyes.

He hopes he wasn’t taking too long to tell the story.

“I’m sorry, Anders-”

“I don’t want your pity,” Anders puts his mug down and looks up at Mitchell. “So don’t.”

Mitchell just nods, almost grateful that Anders cut him off and saved him from the impossibility of trying to offer some semblance of comfort for what had happened to him. He wants to tell Anders that the last thing he wants to do is have to pity him, but instead he takes one last drag from his cigarette and stubs it out in the crystal tray. “Fine, I’ll keep all my pity for myself then.”

“Good. You need it.”

Mitchell laughs loudly, wondering idly how Anders manages to do that. When Anders joins him with a small chuckle of his own, Mitchell decides he doesn’t want to know the secret. He already has enough of Anders’ secrets he needs to keep.

Mitchell pushes up from the table and collects his plate and bowl, pointedly allowing Anders to do the same for himself. “Do you want to do dishes before or after we hang up the clothes?”

Anders looks up at him, his heart beating a little faster at the thought of helping with the dishes too. He wants to be useful to Mitchell so he won’t grow bored of him too quickly. And since Mitchell already said they could hang the clothes out together, he knows he won’t go back on that.

“Dishes,” he tells him quickly and walks quickly towards the sink.

“I have never in my life seen someone so keen to do the washing up. I might just have to keep you around forever,” Mitchell muses as he turns on the tap and dumps far too much soap into the sink.

Anders bites back against the well of emotions trying to push through him. Mitchell didn’t really mean that. He knows that. Most people could hardly tolerate him a whole week, let alone whatever Mitchell constituted as  _ forever _ .

No, Mitchell was simply teasing. A common saying, nothing more.

Anders watches the soap drizzle from the bottle and wrinkles his nose up at Mitchell. “Wasteful.”

“It’s my soap, I can waste as much as I want,” Mitchell flicks a little water at Anders’ scowling face. He flinches and glares up at Mitchell, his hand reaching up to scrub away the droplets of water. Mitchell puts a dish towel in Anders’ hands before he has a chance to reply. “I’ll wash, you dry.”

Anders nods at his instruction and steps up beside Mitchell at the sink. Mitchell can’t help but notice how short Anders is, the counter coming nearly up to his collarbone, and he does his best to hide his smile in the collar of his shirt. They work in silence for a while, Mitchell washing and rinsing before handing the dishes to Anders for him to dry and then stack on the counter next to him. Mitchell opens his mouth to tell him which cupboard the bowls go in, but realises as he’s about to do so that they go in a cupboard high above the counter, that there’s no way Anders is going to be able to reach. He cuts himself off with an aborted noise that brings an amused snort from down by his waist. 

He raises an eyebrow down at Anders, who blushes almost instantly as he realises what he’s done. The sight of his ears going red only makes Mitchell grin harder though, and he bumps him lightly with his hip to let him know it’s okay, mindful not to do it too hard and send him sprawling across the kitchen. 

_ That’d be a perfect way to cap off the morning.  _

He returns his gaze back to the task at hand, chewing lightly on his lip as he tries not to dwell on everything that Anders has just told him. The warm water sluices over his hands as he washes, and he tries to imagine how Anders must have felt, huddled in the park with his own fingers going numb. He clears his throat a few times, his fingers that are drenched in suds and water desperately itching for another cigarette as he tries to think of anything else to say.

“Just ask.”

Mitchell jumps and the plate he’d been holding slides from his hands to splash back into the sink, throwing water up over the front of his t-shirt. Anders sighs heavily before handing him the dish towel. 

“You’re worse than Ty, honestly,” he mutters to himself, so quietly that Mitchell wonders if he would have heard had it not been for his vampiric hearing. 

“What’s that?” Mitchell asks, feigning ignorance, but Anders just shrugs one shoulder before taking the dish-cloth back from Mitchell’s outstretched hand. 

“It’s nothing,” he says, grabbing another plate. He keeps his gaze steady on the counter in front of him, resolutely not looking at Mitchell who is now staring quizzically down at him. “Look. I can tell you want to ask about it. The park,” he elaborates when Mitchell’s frown deepens. “So go ahead. Might as well get it over with.” 

Mitchell considers him for a moment, before turning back to the sink and drawing his lip between his teeth again. He wonders at why exactly he wants to know, what morbid interest inside of him is compelling him to roll the scenario around in his head and tease his imagination into scripting new horrors. He puts it down to the monster inside of him, that ever-present darkness that curls around his deepest thoughts and tints them in shades of ebony. He shouldn’t want to know, he should want to run as far away as he could from this conversation and block out all memory of it. And yet, he knows that every single thing that’s ever happened to this small kid, who’s abruptly become way more important to him than he cares to dwell on, has contributed to making him who he is. Every bad thing that’s happened has shaped him into the small bundle of sarcastic fury that stands beside him in the kitchen, and Mitchell wants to know him, wants to know that kid. Wants to know about all the reasons why Anders is the way he is, not so he can help _ fix  _ them or anything as charitable as that, but so that just maybe he can  _ understand _ him more, and can actually be the friend to him that he wants to be. 

And beneath all of that, there’s a small part of him that’s telling himself that this is what  _ Anders  _ needs. To actually talk about the shit in his life and have someone else there to shoulder the burden, even if it is only the weight of his words. 

Mitchell clears his throat again, slowly rinsing the pan he’d been washing before handing it off to Anders. Their fingers brush ever so slightly on the handle, but Anders doesn’t flinch, instead just focuses on taking the pan and being careful not to drop it. Mitchell wonders if maybe this is what gives him the confidence to continue; Anders’ resolve met unflinchingly, as if silently willing Mitchell to ask him and let him get some of the details off his chest. 

“Which shoulder was it?” Mitchell asks softly, unsure why he’d decided to focus on that detail, but realising that in his own experience, sometimes it was better to focus on the physical pains than the emotional ones. 

Anders stiffens for a moment, before relaxing and rolling his left shoulder as if in memory. Mitchell figures it must be that one, had already figured as much if he was honest with himself from the way that Anders’ constant half-shoulder shrugs tended to occur on his right hand side. He wonders for a moment if there’d been lasting damage to the shoulder joint, knowing enough by this point to deduce that Anders probably never saw a real doctor about it. 

“Aren’t you meant to be a doctor or something?” Anders counters, cocky smirk sliding across his face. “You figure it out.” 

Mitchell snorts. “Yeah or something indeed,” he says quietly. “So it was your left then?”  

Anders nods, rocking back on his heels as he does so before sticking his hand out for Mitchell to pass him the cutlery he’d just washed. 

“Does it still hurt?” 

“Only sometimes,” Anders replies, pulling the half-shrug  that Mitchell has become so endeared too. “When it’s cold, mostly.”  

Mitchell hums in agreement. “I broke my arm when I was about your age; fell out of a tree that I shouldn’t have been climbing. Snapped the bone clean in half.” Mitchell pauses to smile ruefully at the memory. He tilts his head down at Anders to continue his story, as if they were sharing a secret between them in a room full of people, instead of standing in the silence in front of his sink. “Hurt like a little bitch, let me tell you. Had to wear this god awful cast for  _ weeks.  _ Christ that thing used to itch.” 

Mitchell shudders as he remembers the way his arm would burn under the plaster, the frustration he’d feel at not being able to just chuck it off and scratch away at the itch until it passed. He could have never have pictured then how his life would come to be controlled by such a notion, an entirely different kind of itch that he knew he could not scratch. 

“Anyway,” he continues, hoping Anders hadn’t noticed him drifting off into his thoughts again, “that still hurts a bit when it’s cold, so, I feel you on that one.” 

Anders nods again after a moment, seemingly unsure of what to do with this bit of information Mitchell had decided to share. What is he supposed to say? It’s not like he’s ever been able to go to a doctor and get any of his injuries seen too properly, let alone get a cast when necessary. He settles for sticking his hand out for the final piece of cutlery, drying it and putting it away in a drawer while Mitchell lets the water run out the sink. 

He smiles a small, self-satisfied smile as Mitchell quickly tucks the bowls back into their cupboard, pleased that he’d been able to help, to be useful to Mitchell. 

“What should we do now, kiddo?” Mitchell asks, turning to him with a grin, and Anders opens his mouth to remind him about the washing, when his gaze falls on the window. His reply escapes him in a rush of breath as he physically feels the colour draining from his face. 

“Anders? Kiddo, what’s wrong?”

Anders shakes his head wordlessly, backing away from the kitchen and Mitchell’s concerned gaze. He whirls round in the hallway, stumbling to the back door hoping he’d been mistaken, only to feel the creeping sense of dread returning to his stomach as he stares out at the rain that’s now pouring down into the garden. 

Mitchell stays frozen in the kitchen for a moment, wondering what could possibly have happened in the ten seconds it had taken him to put the bowls away. He worries his bottom lip, peering over his shoulder out the same window Anders had just been staring out of, seeing nothing there to cause him any concern. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, wonders if he’s ever going to get this right. 

Composing himself, he heads out into the hall, eyes narrowing for a moment until he spots Anders’ small frame over by his back door. 

“Anders?” he calls as he approaches, not wanting to startle Anders by suddenly appearing right behind him. Anders doesn’t move, the hand he has resting on the glass in front of him not even twitching. Mitchell frowns again, casually leaning on the wall to the right of the doors, wanting to be able to see Anders’ face.

_ Lost,  _ Mitchell thinks.  _ He looks lost.  _

Recognising that look as the one Anders had worn on his face in the kitchen a moment ago, Mitchell glances back outside, frown deepening.

“There something out there, kiddo?” 

Anders makes an aborted sound in the back of his throat, closing his eyes softly before dropping his hand back to his side. When he opens them again to look up at Mitchell, Mitchell feels a stab of pain straight through his chest at the fear swimming in his eyes, the pale blue darkened to a deep sapphire. 

“It’s raining,” Anders chokes out, barely above a whisper.

Mitchell narrows his eyes, his head actually starting to hurt from frowning so hard, before he forces himself to relax his face, not wanting to let on his concern to Anders. He slowly drops to a crouch in front of Anders, shuffling to rest one of his knees on the floor when his back protests the position, hoping that Anders won’t be so afraid to talk to him if they’re on the same level. He reaches out a hand, laying it gently on Anders shoulder as he so often does, but for the first time noticing just how large his hands look on Anders’ tiny frame. 

Anders shudders again slightly, before his gaze darts back out the window. “We were meant to hang out the washing.” 

Concern floods out of Mitchell on an exhale.  _ Oh, Anders.  _

Anders curls forward, seemingly trying to make himself appear even smaller than he already does under the weight of Mitchell’s gaze. He cringes against the thoughts racing in his mind, the ones that had been battling for space ever since he’d looked up from the sink and seen the rain pattering against the window pane. How is he supposed to be useful to Mitchell now? 

He steels himself, waiting for Mitchell to yell and tell him to leave, that he doesn’t want him here when he’s of no use to him now. 

“Anders?” Mitchell’s voice cuts through his thoughts and Anders holds his breath, waiting, always just waiting for the other shoe to drop. When Mitchell doesn’t say anything else and Anders realises he can’t hold his breath any longer, he exhales as quietly as he can, risking a glance up through his lashes at the man kneeling before him.

There’s nothing but worry etched on his face, and Anders makes another choked sound in his throat, mind scrambling for apologies and pleas to do better.  _ He must be worried about the washing getting damp and ruined,  _ Anders thinks panickedly as he brings his hands together in front of him to twist his fingers together. 

“I’m so-” 

“Anders!” Mitchell cuts across him, firmer this time, admonishing, and Anders clamps his mouth shut, tightening his hands where they’re wrapped together in an effort to stop himself from shaking.  _ Mitchell’s angry with him,  _ he knew it would only be a matter of time. The sound of Mitchell’s voice, firm and cross like it’s never been before, echoes in Anders’ eardrums as he chalks up another point on his list of the day’s mistakes. 

Mitchell rubs his spare hand across his face, dropping it to his lap before taking his other from Anders’ shoulder and bringing them both forward to wrap around Anders’ clenched fingers. Mitchell’s hands are cold, and yet Anders can’t help but feel some sense of comfort from the way they wrap around his own, confusion swimming in his mind as he allows Mitchell to uncurl his fingers and take his hands in his own grasp. 

_ Hands are for hurting, not holding,  _ he thinks with a frown.

“Anders,” Mitchell says again, softer now, “I don’t care about the washing. It’s  _ raining,  _ that is not your fault nor something you need to apologise for.” 

There’s something about the way Mitchell says it, something so imploring and desperate, that for a brief moment Anders can’t help but believe him. And he wants to believe him, wants with every fibre to believe that for once it isn’t his fault, that for once he isn’t so useless. 

But he can’t, and he shakes his head even as Mitchell tightens his hands around his own, squeezing his fingers in what Anders would give anything to believe is reassurance.  

“No but, the-” 

“No buts,” Mitchell says. “This. Is. Not. Your. Fault.  _ None  _ of this is your fault. Do you understand that?”

Anders doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand any of it. Doesn’t understand why Mitchell keeps being  _ so nice.  _ But Mitchell’s asked him a question and he knows what will happen if he doesn’t answer. He wants to tell him that no, he doesn’t understand, but he knows that Mitchell wants him to say yes and he doesn’t want to disappoint him again, doesn’t want to get something else wrong. And so he nods his head, but when he sees Mitchell’s answering smile, weak and nothing like the little smirks he’s seen on his face before, he still can’t help but feel like he’d failed. 

He’s just so tired of trying to figure out what Mitchell wants from him. 

“I don’t want anything from you,” Mitchell says suddenly, the smile dropping from his face to be replaced with another frown. Anders freezes, tension locking in his spine so suddenly that it aches as he realises he must have voiced that thought out loud. How could he be so  _ stupid.  _

“Anders, what… Do you think that I want you here to… To get something from you?” Mitchell’s voice is quiet, the incredulity in his tone so frank, his eyes shining with such unabashed  _ hurt,  _ that Anders instantly feels even guiltier than he did before.  _ Why can’t Mitchell just understand? _ Surely he must realise that that is the only reason why Anders is here, to repay him for the vodka and now to make it up to him after all the mess he’d caused today. 

“Why else would you want me around?” Anders asks, so sick and tired of everything at this point that he can’t help just being honest. It feels good, almost. A relief to not have to construct an appropriate response, to not have to think so intently to edit what it is he wants to say. “What’s the point in me being here if I can’t be useful to you?”

Mitchell blinks dumbly, for the first time in a long time his mind completely fucking silent. He’d known on some level Anders’ desire to be helpful, that was the only reason he’d suggested Anders help him with the washing in the first place, but he hadn’t realised just how deep that feeling went. He hadn’t realised that not only did Anders think he was only worth something if he could be useful, but that all this time when he’d been trying to do nice, little things for him, that he’d probably just been making Anders feel even worse about himself. Disgust settles in the pit of his stomach as he wonders what Anders must think of him, if he must think that Mitchell believes him to be useless because he can’t clean up his own mess, or make his own lunch, when the truth of it was simply that he shouldn’t _have_ to do these things, and that Mitchell wanted to do them for him. 

He swallows convulsively a couple of times to push the panic rising in his throat away.  _ Jesus.  _ This is far bigger a mess than he’d thought, and he still hasn’t got a fucking clue what he’s supposed to say. What can he say that Anders won’t take to mean Mitchell’s pitying him in some way? 

Exhaling loudly, he squeezes Anders’ hands one last time before letting go and relaxing back to sit properly on the floor in front of Anders. He crosses his legs, patting the space in front of him in an invitation for Anders to sit down too. He thinks maybe he should have moved them to the couch, but he doesn’t want to break the spell of honesty they seem to be wrapped in over here by the doors, the gentle pattering of the rain a soft accompaniment in the background. Anders looks at him oddly before dropping to the ground, shifting to get comfortable as he glances anywhere but at Mitchell. 

“You know I said I was sort of like doctor?” Mitchell begins, mouth twitching at the look of utter confusion that darts across Anders’ face. He waits for Anders to nod. “Well, I actually work in a morgue. You know what that is right?” 

Anders breaks finally, a snort coming unbidden at Mitchell’s idiotic question. “I’m not 5, you know,” he answers flatly, wondering where the hell Mitchell is going with this. Mitchell grins. 

“Well, working in the morgue means that the people I work with? Not exactly the chatty type. Kinda hard to hold a conversation with the dead. Well, at least a two-sided one anyways,” Mitchell continues, keeping his tone light and jokey and hoping that Anders will catch on to the amusement. 

Anders’ mind reels with questions, but sitting here on the floor with Mitchell, grown-ass adult Mitchell sitting on his own sodding floor like some sort of sad puppy, he can’t help but feel a bit of the tension from before escaping him and instead curling into irritation. Can’t help but feel annoyed, almost, confusion settling in his blood to the beat of unease, enough to have his defences rising and to let some of his usual snark out. 

“Sucks for them,” he says, “having to listen to you prattling on all day and not being able to tell you where to go.” 

He doesn’t know what to think, only that he feels like an idiot for having said what he’d said earlier, for having exposed himself like that and making himself vulnerable for Mitchell to just go and start chattering about some other nonsense. Once again he feels so incredibly stupid, and regrets not having kept his big mouth shut.  _ Shouldn’t he know by now how much trouble that gets him in? Now Mitchell has something to use against him.  _

But Mitchell just grins again, chuckling softly as he nods his head. “Yeah I guess that’s true,” he concedes, eyes twinkling, and Anders has honestly had enough of this.

“What’s your point, asshole?” he blurts out, too annoyed now to even bother feeling afraid. Too sick of not understanding Mitchell and his incessant  _ niceness  _ to worry about how he might react. He never reacts how Anders expects him to anyway, so what’s the point? 

“My point,  _ kiddo, _ ” Mitchell replies, “is that I don’t exactly know a lot of people. I spend half my time in a morgue, surrounded by dead people, and the other half here in my house. Alone. I don’t have friends, the one guy I work with is old enough to be my grandfather and apparently doesn’t know what personal hygiene is, and I’m really not one to go and sit in bars and just chat to random strangers for the sake of it. Ever since I’ve moved here I’ve been alone, and honestly that’s mostly been by choice, other people tend to just piss me off. But then you, snarky little short-ass that you are, walked into my life and all I’ve been able to think about since then is how fucking  _ lonely  _ I feel. And how fucking nice it is to have someone who I can talk too. And yeah okay so maybe you’re only 13 and if I met a psychologist they’d no doubt tell me I was either crazy or a fucking pervert, but I actually just enjoy talking to you, and you’re a darn sight more intelligent than half the adults I’ve ever met. Do you know the last time I met someone who even fucking knew who Thoreau or Joyce were?” Mitchell pauses to take a breath, not even daring to risk a glance up at Anders, unsure of what kind of reaction to expect. He’s surprised at himself to be honest, he hadn’t been meaning to blurt that much out. 

He can only hope that Anders doesn’t think he’s crazy or a fucking pervert. 

“The point is, Anders,” he continues, much softer now, “is that I want you around because I enjoy spending time with you. Because I want to be your friend. And I know you said you don’t want or need friends, but, well, maybe I do. Maybe I want you to be my friend. And friends don’t need to be  _ useful. _ They just need to be themselves.”  

Mitchell looks up now, rueful smile on his face as he watches the play of emotions on Anders’. 

Anders stares at Mitchell, his eyes tracing over his features looking for any hint of a lie in them. His eyebrows furrow when he doesn’t find any. He’s never had anyone want to be his friend before. Aside from Ty, everyone seemed to avoid him for one reason or another. And somehow, despite all the endless ways Anders has fucked in the past few days alone, Mitchell  _ still  _ wants to be his friend. It’s all so much all at once. Strange and new and something he’s always wanted deep down, but something he’s always known he can’t have.

He can’t have friends. Not with the way his life is. Not with the way he is.

But Mitchell knows about his life, more than most, and he’s still not rejecting him as Anders keeps expecting him to. And part of him wants to. Part of him wants Mitchell to turn on him like everyone else. To fit into the same mold that everyone else does in the world. His dad, his mum, Mike, his teachers, and everyone at school. Why can’t Mitchell just stay in line with the rest? Why is he so adamant about being friends, when Anders doesn’t even know what the word means.

His eyebrows draw up in confusion and for a moment he considers pushing Mitchell away and telling him no. Telling him he can’t be his friend. He can’t be that for him. But the look of sheer sincerity of Mitchell’s face has his shoulders sagging and his face turning neutral as his defense mechanisms push the words from his throat.

“Well, that’s a bit pathetic,” Anders says finally, and Mitchell would be offended if not for the hopeful spark he can see in Anders’ eyes, the tentative acceptance waiting to take over. “No wonder you don’t have any friends.”  

Mitchell huffs a small laugh, running a tired hand through exhausted curls. He knows Anders doesn’t mean it, that this is his way of defending himself, to throw up some snark and bury himself behind it, but Mitchell can’t help but feel a bit deflated by it. He’d hoped that maybe he’d said enough to convince Anders that he didn’t need to do that around him anymore, that Mitchell didn’t expect it of him. He sighs, chuckling under his breath as he takes stock of the mess he’s found himself in, but still waits, clinging to the thinning thread of hope that Anders might say something else, if only to save Mitchell the embarrassment of having to cover up for that moment of vulnerability. 

Movement in his peripheral has him looking up again, peering at Anders expectantly, at his small hands wringing in his lap and his jaw twitching as he chews on the inside of his cheek. The way his forehead creases into a small frown as if he’s having a mental conversation with himself, trying to work out what to say or do. 

“If that’s what you want-” Anders begins hesitantly, but Mitchell cuts him off with a shake of his head. 

“No kiddo, I want to know what  _ you  _ want.” 

Anders looks down at his twisted fingers, at the sleeves of the sweater Mitchell had lent him unrolling down over his knuckles. He rubs a thumb over one of the worn cuffs, thinking of the warmth and security it offered him; thinking of the fact that Mitchell had offered him nothing  _ but  _ warmth and security since they’d met. And even though he’s still not convinced that this whole thing isn’t some sort of elaborate joke, as though he’s standing on a magic carpet and just waiting for it to be pulled out from under his feet, he finds himself for the first time in a long time actually daring to hope that it’s not. 

Anders can’t remember the last time he actually got to think about what  _ he  _ wanted. It had never mattered before, he’d never had the option. But he figures that as far as options go, spending more time with Mitchell and his shocking taste in fashion and his overflowing bookshelf isn’t all that unappealing. Maybe they  _ could  _ be friends. 

He glances up to see Mitchell staring at him, leaning forward ever so slightly with his elbows on his knees, eyes shining like an overeager puppy. And before he knows it he’s shrugging one shoulder, ducking his head again as he feels his lip twitching into a smile. 

“Yea I guess we could be friends.” 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated. Or come say hi on [tumblr](http://pyxis-142.tumblr.com).  
> [Raven](http://durinsprinces.tumblr.com) will be there on her throne in hell, if you need her.


End file.
